


Argus

by Jintian



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-05-30
Updated: 2001-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:26:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/pseuds/Jintian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully investigate a series of murders involving someone from Krycek's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Argus

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set between "Tithonus" and "Two Fathers," so the events of "S.R. 819" are also important.

  
Race Street  
Philadelphia, PA  
Sunday, 11:46 pm

Bloodsmell lay thick and coppery on top of the biting cold. Scully and the Philadelphia coroner had agreed that the body was mostly drained before it was left in the alley, but the stench still seemed to emanate from the cuts in the dead man's skin. There were about fifty of them, ellipses with circular centers and pointed ends, but a more accurate count would have to wait until the body was at the morgue.

Mulder's shoes crunched into the only patch of untrodden snow, in the corner between the dumpster and the wall where the wind tunnel effect was minimal. He huddled in his overcoat, trying to ignore the chill deep in his bones. From where he stood he could no longer smell the blood, but his temples had begun to ache.

All along the alley the forensics team trudged through the snow investigating the scene. Scully was the only one not moving as she crouched next to the body, coat dragging and hair whipping about her face. She showed no sign of shivering despite the paleness of her cheeks. Her hands were clad in a pair of thin driving gloves, large-sized latex ones pulled on over them. With her index finger she traced the parabolic outline of one cut in the space just above it.

"Eyes," she said, and the wind flung her voice across the alley to reach him. "Just like the others. About two inches in length, one inch in width." She looked up. The evidence camera flashed and whined, flaring white light across her face.

Mulder shifted from one foot to the other, flexing his ankles. The eyes in the victim's face were closed, the lids blue with cold.

The other victims were three and seven days dead, respectively. They had been discovered in D.C. and Delaware, and were so far unidentifiable through either fingerprints or dental records. Neither had been found in any criminal DNA database. Considering the circumstances under which they'd been assigned the case, Mulder doubted that situation would change.

It had smelled bad from the beginning. Markham from BSU was in charge of the investigation, but apparently there'd been string pulling. Scully was only back in the bullpen ten days after the Bureau cleared her for field duty when AD Kersh told them they were being loaned out again, as a unit this time. His stone face warned them against protests or questions.

This afternoon they had found themselves cooling their heels in the Philadelphia Bureau with the two autopsy reports, while Markham was overseeing the investigation in Wilmington.

Unfortunately, Wilmington was behind the times. Philadelphia Homicide had buzzed the FBI branch an hour ago with news of the third body. Markham was stranded by snow and couldn't get to the city before morning. So until then, Mulder and Scully were the figurative It.

A tech from the coroner's office stood by, taking notes. Scully's voice took on a droning, lecture-like tone. "The victim is a nude Caucasian male who appears to be between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. Dark coloring. Time of death is difficult to determine due to cold weather speeding rigor, however an autopsy will provide a more conclusive estimate. The throat has been slit open, which based on the previous victims was the most likely cause of death. The body was exsanguinated before it was brought here. It was found by..." She looked around.

"Tae Min-Lee," Mulder offered, leaning against the wall. Tae Min-Lee was at the mouth of the alley, talking to the two Philadelphia detectives, Banks and Johnson, with the aid of a Cantonese translator.

"Go ahead and bag the body," Scully ordered. The coroner's team began to move, warming up cold-slowed muscles.

Mulder took a breath before leaving the shelter of the dumpster. Scully straightened as he approached, stepping gracefully over the snow. The doctor in New York had told him her recovery from the shooting had been amazingly quick. She had checked out of the hospital a week after it happened, the wound already closed and forming scar tissue. But still he watched her carefully.

"Do you want to go with them?" he asked her. A dull thud of pain migrated from his temples to the back of his head.

"No," she said, her breath visible in the cold. "We'll do the autopsy first thing tomorrow morning." She glanced around the alley once more. From the set of her mouth, he knew she was leaning toward staying.

He sighed inwardly and drew the coat tighter around himself. "Should we call Markham now?"

She shook her head. "I'd rather have some autopsy results first. Kersh will want to make sure we're pulling our weight."

Mulder nodded, looking down and wishing for some snow boots. He could feel a freezing trickle in his shoes. "Then let's go talk to Tae ourselves."

Scully pivoted, still not seeming to register the winter closing down all around them. Mulder plowed through the snow behind her, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Tae Min-Lee looked about forty, wearing a puffy jacket that had once been white, and a red baseball cap that said "Wong Chinese Grocers." He was shaking his head at the detectives and the translator. "No one. See no one. Just body."

Scully stopped in front of him, pulling out her ID. The detectives stepped back, not so much a gesture of respect as of frustration. "Mr. Tae?" Scully said. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully."

The translator gave her a weary look. "He already told these men three times he didn't see anyone else around here."

Scully asked anyway, "No one on the street? No footprints?"

"See no one," Tae enunciated. "Street empty. I look down alley, I see someone naked, sleep in snow. Cover with snow, very thin snow. I come closer, I shake him so he wake. But he not sleep. He _dead_."

Mulder pursed his lips, a line from Conrad echoing in his head. Yes, the victim was very dead, indeed.

"You called the police after you found the body?" Scully persisted.

Tae nodded. "Yes. I look closer, look like dead man have all open eyes, all over skin. Look like not sleep at all."

Scully was silent. From the tilt of her head Mulder knew she was waiting for him to ask his own questions. But instead, he cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Tae. We'll be in touch if we need to find out anything else."

The translator piped up. "Can he go home now?"

Mulder glanced at the Philadelphia detectives. "Can you get one of the uniforms to drive him?"

Banks shrugged. "Sure."

Scully was quiet until Tae and the translator had shuffled off. "It looks like the snow has obliterated most of the evidence we could get from the scene," she said.

Johnson nodded. "There was a light snowfall earlier tonight, ended about ten pm. The first uniforms who got here found multiple footprint tracks going in and out of the alley, too many to count."

"But we'll be scraping the snow out of here and checking through it, of course," Banks said. "Anyway, we could assume the body was dropped before ten."

Scully nodded. "It was probably dropped during the snowfall. Less visibility, fewer people on the street."

They were all silent. Mulder shifted as Scully glanced back at the alley, waiting for her to decide.

After a moment, she said, "The coroner's team will get the body to the morgue. If you discover any further evidence connected to this case, contact me or Agent Mulder as soon as possible. Or Agent Markham," she said as an afterthought. "You have our cards."

Banks and Johnson nodded. Mulder nodded back at them, trying not to let the relief on his face show as Scully squared her shoulders and started walking to the car.

*

A fresh fall of snow had just begun as they pulled away from the curb. Mulder put the windshield wipers on low and guided the car down Race Street.

He glanced at Scully and wondered what she was thinking, being back in Philadelphia. Or if she even thought anything.

She sat facing forward, silent. He wasn't sure if she was trying to stay awake for the ride to the motel, but in case she was going to fall asleep he didn't try to talk to her.

Instead he faced forward also, driving with both hands and making careful turns through the slick streets. The city was not as empty as Tae had said Race Street was. Even at this hour there were still scattered cars driving to who knew where.

So much in the city by day went hidden, not necessarily monsters but humans with the potential to become such. Prowling the streets were the Ed Jerses, all those who by day worked nine to five jobs, took lunch breaks and cigarette breaks, clogged traffic at rush hour with their midsize sedans. There was never any indication of what might lie underneath, of what violence could be discovered without the reflective light of the sun. It was only under those dark circumstances, when the city was cloaked in shadows, that they slithered out to feed.

*

Chestnut Street  
Philadelphia, PA  
Sunday, 11:52 pm

The bar cast a blue light onto the snow, making odd shadows where the whiteness had been moved and trampled. Krycek stood outside for a moment, breathing in frostbitten air and trying to locate every point of egress without shivering.

It was late when he finally stepped through the door, but the building was still filled with yuppies dressed in sharp dark clothes. They were all sipping expensive-looking drinks, eyeing him coolly as he made his way to the end of the bar, the only clear space in sight. From that vantage point he could survey most of the main room. Greer, with his bone-hard countenance, would stand out in a crowd like this, but there was no sign of him yet.

There was a time when Krycek himself would have blended in with the sea of faces. He was certainly dressing the part nowadays, having discarded the leather jacket and unshaven jaw in favor of tailored suits. But he could feel the undeniable difference between himself and the crowd -- a life-and-death alertness the patrons lacked, for all their clean moneyed grace.

Krycek wondered briefly why Greer had chosen such a place to hand over the access codes. But then, he'd been out of the loop for too long to know whether or not this was standard. He had come a long way from the dank, dripping hold of the Russian ship where the Englishman had duped him out of the vaccine, but he had a still longer way to go.

He was already at the bottom of his drink when his cell phone rang. Krycek darted his gaze about before answering. "Yes?"

"We need you to dispose of something," Aimes said.

He touched the side of his glass lightly with the plastic fingers of his prosthesis, gathering condensation. "Right now?"

"Yes."

"I'm waiting for our Philadelphia associate."

"Our Philadelphia associate has just been delivered to the Philadelphia Morgue."

Alarm bells jangled in Krycek's head. "What are you talking about?"

"You'll find the body under John Doe #4397," Aimes continued. "Get rid of it and any evidence that might identify it."

The line went dead, and Krycek pushed himself away from the bar. A feeling of hidden menace slid chilly fingers up his spine, and he glanced around once more. But he could sense no tangible danger in the crowd of drinkers. The night hit him in the face as he opened the door and stalked out.

*

Philadelphia Morgue  
Monday, 2:29 am

Security at the morgue was virtually non-existent. Seemed like there was no risk anyone would want to steal the deceased. Krycek rewired the outdoor alarm during the guard's bathroom break and ducked through the shadowed hallways toward the autopsy area.

Two folders interrupted the white counters, one for John Doe #4397 and one for a Harold Riley from Springfield, Pennsylvania. Krycek took the first and flipped it open, finding a set of fingerprints. They would get nothing from those, but he'd have to retrieve any blood and tissue samples. Forensics photos of the body were being developed on the third floor. That would be the next stop.

The rack of drawers on the far wall loomed blank and silver. He found the one with the right label and slid it out, careful not to let the wheels squeak.

There was Greer's face as he'd expected, looking just as grim as when he was alive. Krycek pulled the drawer further and caught a glimpse of Greer's chest. More specifically, what was on Greer's chest.

The shiver of menace traveled up his spine again. He yanked the drawer the rest of the way out, not caring about the wheels anymore, and stood very still, looking at what had been done to Greer's body.

He recognized those cuts.

*

Motel Six  
Philadelphia, PA  
7:26 am

Mulder dreamed of a body covered with eyes, real eyes. Eyes that blinked, that were blue and green and brown and black, that had lashes and stared out at him without expression. At one point the lids opened wide, the eyes getting bigger and bigger until they seemed to stretch the bounds of anatomical correctness.

Not that there was much correct about them to begin with.

Then there was a gunshot, loud and close by. The eyes, every one of them, snapped closed and disappeared. Where they used to be was only smooth, unbroken skin.

He woke in his motel room, shivering, and realized that he'd kicked off the bed covers in his sleep. He pushed himself out of bed into the gray light of the room, dressing in running clothes.

Outside Mulder jogged over the fresh layers of snow, feeling the air whistle in his lungs as he set a medium pace. The morning was thin and clear, and it chased out the dream eyes and replaced them with the paleness of the sky, the quiet blind houses lining the streets.

He wanted to be more awake than this. It had been a long sleep for him in Kersh's bullpen, interrupted only by brief instances when his search for more vivid work was rewarded. He felt a generation older than the last time he had hunted a killer. Perhaps he could still remember the hows of investigating, collecting clues like so many droppings on the trail, but remembering and knowing were not the same thing.

Mulder wondered if Scully had been thinking similar thoughts yesterday. Only a month before Kersh had assigned her to the Alfred Fellig case -- was she wondering what the consequences would be this time? Was she eager to be in the role of pathologist again despite that?

Did she feel awake?

On his way back he stopped for coffee and bagels, walking with them to the motel. His thoughts traveled ahead of him, touching on Scully again.

He couldn't ask her these questions directly. Mutual self-confession was an art they had attempted but never mastered, and most of what he knew about her came from observation. He assembled her patterns of behavior like a picture puzzle, a map that would show him which directions to take. Sometimes he thought he had Scully all charted and measured, but there were always new discoveries that would surprise him, that would send him back to the drawing board.

The shooting had been such a discovery, Mulder thought. He had felt lost afterward, like someone had taken the map from him and revealed that entire continents had been left out.

Scully had opened the connecting door while he was gone, and he could hear the sound of her hair dryer. He left her breakfast on her dresser, then headed into his bathroom and stripped out of his sweats.

When he came out of the shower, she was perched on the end of his bed, already dressed and looking through the casefile folder. She closed it as he moved toward his suitcase.

"The body has disappeared." Her voice was frosty.

That stopped him in his tracks. He stood there wrapped in his towel. "How?"

"I got the call about fifteen minutes ago. One of the ME's assistants went in to prep for the autopsy and it was just gone. The folder, forensics photos, blood and tissue samples, all of it. That was an hour ago and they've looked everywhere."

His head spun. "Security? They didn't see anything?"

"No."

He shook his head, moving quickly to his suitcase. She looked back down at the casefile as he began dressing. "Who the hell would want that?" he muttered.

She countered, "Who do we know who likes to erase evidence?"

He paused. "Do you think it's...?"

Scully bit her lip. "I don't know. We've been left alone since we were assigned to Kersh. But I'm suspicious of how we got this case to begin with." She raised her eyes to his. "Aren't you?"

Mulder was silenced for a moment. She'd changed, and it wasn't just getting shot. She suspected things now. She had stopped taking it all at face value. He cleared his throat, breaking the quiet that had settled between them. "Did you tell Markham about the disappearance?"

She nodded. "He should be back from Wilmington by lunchtime."

"You want me to come with you to the coroner's office?" he asked.

"If you want to. So far that body and the other two are the only evidence we have. I'd hoped to get a positive ID on this one."

"Maybe that's exactly why it's missing. Because it could be identified."

She nodded. "That's what I was thinking."

"What do you think Kersh will do when he finds out?"

"I don't know. He has enough issues with loaning us out already. Let's just hope the other two bodies give you enough for a profile." She eyed him. "Ready to go?"

Mulder grabbed his coat. "Yes."

*

8th Street  
Philadelphia, PA  
7:33 am

It was something to do with the way a knife could make an object part from itself, Krycek knew. He remembered Jun explaining it during that long, long drive from D.C. to New York, when Krycek had surfaced from shock enough to pay attention.

"A blade is clean," Jun had told him. "Cleaner than a gun." He had a voice that made Krycek imagine ripples on the surface of a black pond, vowels stretching languidly into slurred consonants. "Think about a sharp edge slicing through every layer, thinner and thinner, shaving molecules from molecules. Apple, hair, person -- if you go deep enough, it's permanent." Jun lifted a hand from the steering wheel and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, slanted golden eyes shifting sideways to see if Krycek was looking.

At the time Krycek was still reeling from Skyland Mountain, the world reshaping itself around him as the car sped out of Washington. He'd kept up appearances for a day or two, thinking he would be safe, thinking Spender would find a way to cover everything up.

But Fox Mulder had put the pieces together with the same flashfire intuition he had used on the Augustus Cole case, and Krycek's life was cleaved apart with the deepest, permanent cut. Jun's philosophy was truer than he realized. From then on there would always be the time before, and the time after. No going back.

Krycek remembered Maryland zipping past the car window, signs and billboards and exit ramps all viewed through the haziness of shock. So much of it he'd taken for granted. Eating at McDonald's, getting gas. If he ever did these things again he'd be looking over his shoulder the whole time.

Unlocking those memories was like spilling into the open everything Krycek had wanted to keep out of sight. The past was dead weight, a dangerous distraction from forward movement, yet now it was all crowding back into his head. The conductor he'd killed, Mulder hanging from the sky tram, Duane Barry gasping for breath, Spender's contemptuous dismissals. He remembered waking up in his D.C. apartment with a straight razor at his throat, Jun's version of a greeting.

Krycek shook his head, closing down on that memory and pushing everything else back. Jun.

Jun was not from Tunisia, but he had learned to kill there and the desert had seared itself onto him. Even sitting in a car Krycek could see it. It was in the shift of his shoulders, the way his skin looked like a bronze cast of skin. His body was long and loose, all the limbs swinging from his joints and looking forever ready to fall off. He would never have fit into the FBI himself, even if he were old enough to pass as an agent. There was something wild in Jun. If someone had tried to insert him into a suit and tie he would simply have cut the clothes off his back.

He was still a boy, practically, a strange boy older than his years, who knew history like it had been written into his blood. Krycek remembered him filling the hours to New York with his black water voice, retelling ancient wars, ancient heroes, waving his hands as he spoke and driving with his knees. He had an Asiatic face, high cheekbones and slanted eyes, full lips, but he looked like he'd been dipped in gold at birth -- a modern-day Achilles with a different colored river.

He remembered Jun tracing the shapes of the scars on his right forearm, thin lines carved into a column of hieroglyphic eyes. A pattern he had put there himself.

The same pattern that had been cut all over Greer's body.

Krycek sat in his rented room and flipped through the folder he had taken from the Philadelphia morgue. The single naked bulb overhead swung every time someone above him walked across the floor. It cast moving shadows about the corners of the room but the light on the papers he read was steadfast, so it was impossible for him to miss the name of the pathologist who had been scheduled to perform the autopsy: Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D.

*

Philadelphia Morgue  
9:09 am

"Eyes," Mulder said. "What do you know about them, Scully?"

She looked at him over the autopsy reports, eyebrow raised. "Do you want a scientific discussion?"

He shook his head, tapping his pen lightly on the counter. "I want to know why the UNSUB chose them as his signature."

"I'd have thought that would be the first thing you'd figure out."

The dryness of her tone was not lost on him. "Serial killers tend to use their victims as mediums," he told her, "to transmit some kind of message, whether to the authorities or some unknown party. They take great care in things like cuts, in the placement of the bodies. It's ritualistic, an expression of personal art, in some cases."

She nodded.

"So," Mulder continued. "What do these eyes tell you?"

Scully sighed, glancing around at the empty autopsy bay. She looked back down at the reports from the other two bodies, pushing them toward Mulder so that he could see the photographs the coroner had taken of the cuts.

He waited for her.

"Look at that," she said. She pointed with one carefully manicured fingernail. "It's difficult to cut curves into flesh, even with the sharpest edge. Straight lines are always the most precise. But this...this looks almost flawless."

His gaze followed where she directed. "They determined these were done with a blade? Not a laser or anything?"

"Yes. With a medical scalpel. Left-handed. The throats were slit with a longer blade, possibly a straight razor."

Mulder rubbed his chin. "So the UNSUB knows his knives."

"Yes. I think that's obvious. He has experience with this. He's probably cut this shape countless times before." She shook her head, looking down at the pictures.

"What?"

"It's just...what you said about these being an expression of personal art."

"What?" He moved closer.

She kept her eyes on the photographs. "I'm...appreciative of the fine level of control it would take to do something like this. There _is_ something unattainable about these cuts, something that would require experience and knowledge, something that the average person doesn't have. A...talent, or a skill, I suppose."

Mulder was silent, digesting her words.

"So." She moved the photos out of her way as she began taking notes from the first report. Her hair fell over her cheek, obscuring the paleness of her skin.

Mulder picked the photos up, watching her out of the corner of his eye. But she seemed to be concentrating on what she was doing, and so he studied the pictures as she worked.

He could see what she was talking about. The cuts were smooth and sure, the arcs in each line graceful, almost as if they had been drawn with a sweeping paintbrush. But the lurid red against the grayish skin tones, sucking all the color remaining in that dead flesh.... The eyes seemed to expand as he stared at them, like the ones in the dream that had woken him that morning.

Something flashed in his memory suddenly and he cleared his throat.

"Scully, what do you remember from Greek mythology?"

She looked up at him finally. "I remember Hippocrates."

"Did you ever learn about Argus?"

"It sounds familiar." She frowned. "Who was he?"

His heart pounded a bit faster as memory started snapping into place. "He was a guardian. He was the _ideal_ guardian because he had one hundred eyes all over his body. He could sleep with just half of them closed."

She tilted her head at that.

Mulder went on. "Except he was eventually killed by Hermes. Argus was watching over one of Zeus' lovers, and Hermes somehow managed to get _all_ of his eyes to go to sleep."

"What do you think that means?"

"I don't know just yet." He put the photos back into the folders. "But I think I should go to the library." He stopped and looked at her. "Do you want to stay here?"

She nodded, and he was halfway out the door when her voice called him back.

"Mulder, I just thought of something."

He turned around.

"It's not a myth," she said, "but an old wives' tale, about the eyes of a dead person. They say you can see the murderer in the victim's eyes."

*

8th Street  
Philadelphia, PA  
9:15 am

These days Krycek couldn't dial any of the Circle directly. The Group's phone operators had all known him for years, but they also knew the Group. Every one of them probably had his file of fuckups memorized. If he could get through in under seven minutes it was a slow day at headquarters.

Finally, Aimes came on the line. "Were you successful?"

"Yes."

"Good. We will expect you in New York tomorrow."

"Wait."

Aimes was silent, but didn't hang up.

"Who killed him?" Krycek asked.

"I don't recall telling you it was any of your concern."

"Do you know or don't you?"

There was a pause. "Why are you so curious?"

Something held him back, erasing his answer before he could voice it. He thought of Jun, years ago, raising a long finger to his lips as he removed the knife from Krycek's throat.

"I asked you a question," Aimes said.

"I knew the man who died," Krycek told him. "I just want to know who killed him."

"I hope you're not thinking rash thoughts. Until now the Group has been willing to erase certain bits of history from its memory. That can always change."

He took a breath. "I'm not thinking anything."

"Good," Aimes intoned. "Let that continue to be the case. Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow." Krycek hung up and clenched his jaw.

Greer's folder had yielded a whole lot of nothing. He tapped the space that held Scully's name. Then his gaze fell on the crime scene photos, the cuts on Greer's body and the snow crisp white all around.

He thumbed the phone on again and dialed.

*

Philadelphia Central Branch Library  
12:28 pm

The library had that old book smell and the quiet hum of people not speaking. Mulder scratched notes onto his legal pad and pawed through pages gone soft on the edges.

The Renaissance was in love with the nude body -- muscles, breasts, the soft flesh of the stomach and buttocks. It was not, however, enamored of nude bodies with one hundred eyes. Mulder shook his head at yet another painting of a sleeping Argus with smooth, unbroken skin.

He was chewing on the end of his pen when Markham slid into the chair on the other side of the table.

"Agent Mulder," the other man said. "Hard at work, I see."

Markham never asked questions, only made statements. Mulder had known him years ago in the BSU. He was one of those rare finds among agents in the Bureau: non-territorial. Despite this he'd managed to claim a high rung on the BSU ladder.

Mulder lowered his pen. "I make some of my best moves sitting down. Good to see you, Markham."

"Likewise. Tell me about some of these moves." Markham raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. "Agent Scully says you're here catching up on mythology."

"Agent Scully is correct as ever. I think I've found the source of those eyes." Mulder pushed over a book that had one of the few pictures of Argus with his eyes open. He explained what he'd remembered about the myth.

Markham's eyebrows shot even higher. "So our UNSUB is into the classics. I assume you have a theory about all of this."

Mulder took a breath, settling into the old profiler's rhythm. "I think the symbolism of the eye-shaped cuts can be taken straightforwardly. The UNSUB's laying it on thick with them, setting the victims up as Argus and himself as Hermes, who was one of the more clever Greek gods. He was a known trickster. He also escorted people to the underworld when they died."

"Go on."

"Did you know Hermes was also called the Messenger god? It's where the term hermeneutics comes from. The science of interpretation."

Markham shook his head.

Mulder continued. "I think it's safe to say the UNSUB is assuming that role for himself. In a sense it's almost _too_ obvious, but we're dealing with someone who really wants to say something, and we're meant to interpret it."

"And you know how."

"I think we'll know when we know who the victims are. If they're supposed to be Argus, then maybe we can transfer the symbolism of the guardian role to them. That begs the question of who they were when they were living.

"But I think the key is in the legend itself. Eyes have always stood for vision, clarity, and intellect. But because they failed Argus in the end, they also serve as a warning to not depend so much on the senses or the material world."

"Interesting." Markham nodded, and despite that blank unblinking face Mulder could tell his thoughts were churning.

He cleared his throat. "In this case, they also symbolize vanity and pride. After Argus' death, Zeus' wife Hera, who first assigned him to watch over her husband's lover, took all of his eyes and put them on the tail of the peacock."

"So the UNSUB's warning us or someone against too much pride. Pride goeth before a fall."

Mulder slid another book over. The painting this time portrayed a helmeted Hermes crouching over a sleeping Argus. "Exactly."

"Well," Markham said. "Never let me mistake your best moves for sitting on your ass again, Agent Mulder. But we have one problem still to iron out."

Mulder waited.

"I don't think it was the Messenger who took our third body out of the morgue. Not if he's using the victims to say something."

Mulder hesitated, keeping his suspicions about the Group silent. "You're right, I believe someone else took it."

"Then we'd better find out about that," Markham said, standing.

Mulder swallowed his thoughts and followed the other agent out of the library, leaving the books open along their well-worn spines.

*

8th Street  
Philadelphia, PA  
12:30 pm

The trill of his cell phone interrupted him. Krycek set down the parts of the gun he'd been cleaning and reached for it.

"What did you find out?" he asked.

After a pause, Skinner spoke. "The request came from BSU. The paper trail doesn't reveal who made it."

"What about the other AD? Kersh?"

"Asking Kersh about Mulder and Scully wouldn't be the best move right now," Skinner said, sounding like someone had clenched a fist around his throat.

Krycek's thoughts raced. "Why were they assigned this particular case?" As far as he knew, the Group didn't have anyone in the Behavioral Sciences Unit. But then of course, nowadays there was a whole hell of a lot he didn't know.

"That I can't tell you. All I know is there have been two other deaths, eight and four days ago, same MO with the victims cut up. Those details have not been given to the press."

"The other victims haven't been identified?"

"No, they didn't show up in any databases."

Which meant they were probably Group operatives. Considering Greer, Krycek concluded this was a reasonable assumption. "Was there any evidence found at the crime scenes?" he asked.

"This case isn't my department. You'll have to look at the file."

"Well, why don't you make that your next task? Get me a copy of it."

"Impossible," Skinner growled. "It's an open case being investigated in Philadelphia."

"You're an Assistant Director in the age of information technology. Exercise some authority."

"Look, there's no way I can promise --"

"You'll have it by late tonight," Krycek told him. "Because you know what'll happen if you don't."

When Skinner spoke again it was around a mouthful of gravel. "Is that all?"

"I'll let you know." Krycek thumbed the phone off and tossed it onto the cloth with the disassembled gun.

He paced around the room. The fact that Skinner couldn't determine just who in the BSU had requested Mulder and Scully indicated one thing: their involvement was no coincidence. Especially considering how closely the Group was tied up in Greer's death and Jun's -- almost definite -- hand in it. The Circle had long known that Mulder had informants among their operatives, and the mysterious BSU patron seemed to fit the profile.

The question was, what did Jun have to do with all of it? Krycek hadn't seen the other man since 1995 -- truth to tell he wouldn't have been surprised to learn of his death -- but he couldn't be the only one to recognize those cuts. The Group had to know Jun was behind at least the first two victims, and Krycek didn't doubt they knew he was behind Greer's, as well.

Was Jun working on the Group's orders, then? No. Not if the victims had just been left in the open like that.

A thought occurred to Krycek. They must have known he would figure out Jun's involvement when they ordered him to dispose of Greer's body. But what did they want him to do with that realization?

He had to be in New York by tomorrow. That would be the place to get some answers.

*

Murray's Sandwich Shoppe  
Philadelphia, PA  
1:16 pm

"I'm off to the restroom," Markham said as they came in the door. "Somebody get me a BLT, extra bacon."

"Sure thing." Mulder located the cashier station and guided Scully over. They gave their orders and Markham's and requested them to go.

The diner was crowded still with the remains of the Monday lunch hour. It was a favorite of Markham's, whose suggestion it was to collect Scully at the morgue, grab lunch, and head straight back to the Philadelphia Bureau for a powwow.

Scully drew Mulder toward a clear pocket of space near the side exit. "You know, Mulder," she said quietly, "if we're right about what we suspect, we'll eventually have to tell Markham."

He sighed. "I know. I'm not looking forward to it."

"Well, you've worked with him. Do you think he'll believe us?"

Mulder shook his head. "That was years ago, and we were never partners. As a profiler I think his work is decent enough. He gets inside a killer's head like he's doing yard work. Just pushes up his sleeves and goes in, and whatever he digs up he assimilates into his profile no matter what it is."

"He seems relatively unfazed about last night's body."

"That's just his mask. I've never seen him get rattled by anything."

She nodded and switched gears. "I told Kersh. He was not happy."

Mulder pursed his lips. "Well, we've probably got a ways to go before we get yanked off the case."

"I'm still wondering who _put_ us on it. Mulder, we've got victims who can't be identified, a body that's disappeared into thin air, and an UNSUB whose MO is a second cousin to mind-boggling. I don't think, given our track record at the Bureau, that a case like this would just happen to be dropped into our laps."

He sighed. "So what do you suggest we do? If we were given this case for a reason, don't you want to find out what it is?"

She shook her head. "Do you think it's worth the inevitable consequences? I just don't know anymore."

His laugh was hollow. "Well, you know what, Scully? Neither do I."

Markham came back then, stopping their discussion. "I understand you're in Domestic Terrorism now," he said, conversationally. "But I think I recall correctly that you were with those X-files a lot longer."

Mulder nodded. "Since 1991."

"And you've been partners the whole time."

"No," Scully said. "Only since 1992."

Markham nodded. "I had partners up until a year or so into the BSU. But profilers tend to work best when they're alone. And since I've started heading investigations..." He shrugged.

Mulder shifted. "Good autopsy work always helps a profile. I think I was lucky to have Scully assigned." He was conscious of her looking at him and realized it was the first time he'd ever said so.

Scully shook her head. "Autopsies by themselves don't always solve a case. And you're out of luck if you don't have a body."

"Oh, hell," Markham said. "No modesty here, Agent Scully. And my guess is, if that missing body doesn't turn up, we'll probably have another one to look at sooner or later."

Mulder could feel her deciding whether to bristle at such nonchalance, but then she simply nodded. "I suppose you're right."

The cashier called their number and they went to pay for their sandwiches.

*

600 Arch Street  
Philadelphia, PA  
1:48 pm

They'd just gotten themselves settled into a conference room at the Philadelphia office when another agent knocked on the door.

"There you are," he said to Markham. "Someone's on the phone for you."

Markham swallowed what he was chewing and said, "Hell, patch it in through here." He gestured to the phone on the wall. The other agent left and a moment later the phone gave a short buzz. Markham stood and picked up the handset. "Yes, Markham here."

Mulder was handing Scully a photocopy he'd gotten at the library when something Markham said made them both look up.

"Well, of course I will, but I'm hoping this doesn't mean you're planning to take over the case. We've got it under control."

His back was to them both. Mulder mouthed, "Take over?" to Scully, but she just gave him a curious shrug.

"All right," Markham was saying. "I'll get one of the secretaries here to fax it over. Gimme half an hour. Uh huh." He hung up and came back to the table.

"What was that all about?" Scully asked.

Markham spread his hands. "You both work out of D.C., so you must know Assistant Director Skinner. He just called to get a fax of the casefile sent to him."

*

Hoover Building  
Washington, D.C.  
2:07 pm

Kim looked up from the notes she was taking. "Aren't you going to answer the phone?"

Skinner sighed inwardly. It wasn't his fax machine, but rather his direct line, which lately had ceased to bear any kind of news except bad.

He meant to check the caller ID first. If it was blank he simply wouldn't pick up, Kim or no Kim. Alex Krycek -- or whoever else wanted to yank his chain today -- could chew on his other arm until it fell off.

But of course his hand was already on the receiver and lifting it to his ear, because even if his thoughts were defiant his body knew better. Knew _much_ better.

It wasn't Krycek, though. The caller ID registered Dana Scully's personal cell phone, and indeed it was her voice that said, "Sir? It's Agent Scully."

As usual, he paused and gave away whatever advantage he might have had. Somehow she always managed to get the upper hand with him. "Not right now," he said, conscious of Kim's presence, but the words were meaningless.

"Then when?"

"Later."

"First explain to me your interest in the case Mulder and I are investigating."

He paused again, and promptly gave himself a mental kick. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Her voice gained a hard edge. "Don't play games with me, Skinner. You had to know we'd find out. Now what do you want with that file?"

He thought briefly of simply hanging up on her, but that would be the worst thing he could do. "Look," he said, searching for words to calm her. All he could come up with was, "Trust me."

"Trust has to be earned, and I'd say you lost quite a bit of ours a few months ago."

Skinner closed his eyes. "Maybe I'm trying to earn it back. I'll know more by tomorrow morning."

She was silent at that, perhaps thinking, perhaps with one hand over the mouthpiece as she talked to Mulder.

He felt like screaming at her that they shouldn't trust him, but instead what he said was, "Do you want to solve this case or not?"

After another pause, he thought he heard her sigh. "Mulder has some additional notes, some profiling he did today. If you can read his handwriting..."

"I'll manage." With his free hand he took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose.

"Tomorrow, then." She hung up.

Skinner let the receiver fall back into its cradle, his hand automatically going to the Delete key on the caller ID box. His thoughts were swirling darkly, but he managed not to provoke more than one or two concerned looks from his secretary.

A half hour after she finally left, the fax machine rang and began to print.

*

600 Arch Street  
Philadelphia, PA  
6:03 pm

FBI coffee was federally funded, which meant it ranked somewhere between McDonald's and your typical police department. Mulder emptied a serving of cream into Scully's and swirled it around with a stirrer. He let his own remain black and bitter.

She'd been quiet most of the afternoon after talking to Skinner. Mulder knew she would keep up the appearance of diligence in front of Markham, and indeed she had seemed to be preoccupied with reading over the casefile and writing her own notes. But he could sense the live wire agitation in her, an electric hum that charged the air in her presence.

She knew something he didn't. Something about Skinner.

Mulder had a vague idea of what had passed between them during Skinner's illness several months ago. They'd both been shocked when the AD refused to help them after his recovery, but Scully had seemed...almost _offended_ if Mulder wanted to put a word to it. As if Skinner had personally insulted her. Subsequently, she'd dropped the case like a venomous snake and shown no interest in having the security videos further analyzed.

Carrying the two coffees, he made his way back to the conference room where they had set up camp with Markham. His thoughts continued to worry at Scully's silence. He had not heard anything of her phone call to Skinner. She had come back to the room briefly to ask for his profile notes, and had given only a quick nod to his questioning glance.

He was willing to trust who she trusted. He had learned to follow his instincts in that respect. But still, she had seemed so wary earlier, so suspicious, that he had to wonder. Was she right in trusting Skinner?

*

Hoover Building  
Washington, D.C.  
9:50 pm

Krycek was following memory through these corridors, letting instinct provide guidance where recollections failed. He slipped silent and ghostlike through the empty hallways, penetrating to places he had learned only after leaving the security of law and light.

This section of the Hoover Building was draped in shadows, but even by day it rarely saw traffic. Krycek held an upper level security pass in his hand, "W Skinner" in tiny print next to the bar code. The pass would gain him entry at every door, provided an identical one borne by the real W Skinner wasn't in simultaneous use.

Tonight Krycek expected the Assistant Director to be stationary. Waiting for him.

There were cameras, of course, hooked up at regular intervals in the right angle between ceiling and wall. But Skinner had done his job and the red ON lights were all dark. He glided forward, face exposed to the dimness, until he reached the door he was looking for.

Skinner sat behind his desk, illuminated only by his desk lamp so that the light spilled over the smooth skin of his head and created monster eyebrows from shadow. Krycek stopped just outside the circle of light, waiting until the AD looked up with the same sullen expression he probably wore while drinking his coffee, while fucking a woman.

"Do you have it?" Krycek asked.

Skinner waited a beat, then leaned back in his chair and flipped a file folder on the desk. "It's just a fax copy."

"Did you read it?"

Their eyes met. "Yes."

"And?"

Skinner thrust his chin at the file. "And what's your interest in this, Krycek? Is this you or your employers yanking Mulder and Scully by the leash?"

Krycek leaned forward. "Their leashes are a bit longer than yours, you know."

Skinner's lip curled.

Krycek shook his head. "Use your brain, Skinner, whatever the Marines didn't manage to blast away. Do you really think the Group would want them sniffing around in a case like _this_?"

"Then what's going on?"

He ignored the question. "Find out who assigned this case to them."

The other man glared. "I already _tried_ \--"

Krycek shook his head. "Look at their history. Mulder had an ally in Matheson, but that slimy fuck wouldn't bend over if he needed to scrape dogshit from his shoe. The other informants were all managed eventually. But where they came from..."

Skinner raised his eyebrows.

There might not be anyone left. Spender was immersed in the hybridization program, his son didn't have the knowledge, Diana Fowley didn't have the balls, and Kersh didn't have the access.

Krycek pursed his lips. There might not be anyone left that he would know about, he amended. But he could find out. He picked up the file folder in one black-gloved hand. "Start with the history," he repeated. "I'll be in touch."

*

Philadelphia, PA  
9:50 pm

He hit the I-95 at seventy miles per hour, thinking of hot water spurting out of a shower nozzle and plugging him in the chest, thinking of how he would bury himself in the warm blankets of his motel bed afterward. The speedometer needle crept toward the right.

"Mulder, you're speeding." Scully's voice was sharp.

"It's a way of life in Philly," Mulder explained.

She shook her head, turning to look out her window. She'd switched the radio off as soon as they got in the car. The silence between them now was wrapped in the monotone humming of the freeway, broken only by cars passing outside.

Mulder cleared his throat to say something, but she interrupted him.

"Skinner said he was trying to earn our trust back."

Mulder glanced at her. "That's why he wanted the file?"

"He wouldn't tell me why exactly. But he implied that he was helping to solve the case."

"So...you believed him."

"What would you have done?" She sounded honestly curious.

He shrugged. "I don't think he'd ask for it without a reason."

"I know. I guess I just believed his reasons were the right ones."

Mulder spoke carefully. "I...didn't know if you were willing to believe him at all anymore."

"I wasn't, actually. Not until we spoke."

"What changed?" he asked. "And I don't just mean today."

She was silent for a moment. "I don't know really. I suppose I was angry at him because I thought he'd promised to help us and then reneged on that."

"You were angrier than me."

Scully sighed. "I expected too much of him. In the past he's always been limited in what he could do for us, by his occupational position as well as his own personal beliefs. I don't know why I thought this time would be different."

"But you trusted him anyway. You trusted that he could help us."

"Yes. I still think he has access to things we don't. And...because I don't think he would ever really betray us."

Mulder digested that. "Do you think he knows more about this case than we do?"

"I don't doubt it."

He slowed down to take the exit for their motel. Snow was sticking to the windshield and he turned the wipers on. "Then we'd better find out what he knows."

She shook her head. "We've both learned that direct confrontation with him doesn't work. What works is investigating the information _around_ what we don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking," she said. "We can't identify the other two victims with either fingerprint or dental records. They just don't show up. We had similar trouble when we were trying to find Luis Cardinal -- it was a stroke of luck that we had matching DNA evidence from the crime scene when Melissa was killed. Unfortunately we don't have anything for the victims in this case."

"And?"

"And...the reason we were looking for Cardinal to begin with was that he shot Skinner. We caught him on his second attempt."

He tried to follow her reasoning while navigating the motel parking lot. "The men Cardinal worked for wanted Skinner dead. You're thinking these two victims were in the same profession? That's why they don't have records like that?"

"Not only that, Mulder. I'm thinking about Skinner's connection as well. Someone tried to kill him _again_ , just a few months ago. And now all of a sudden we get this case, and he's interested in it."

"You think it's related? The methods are dissimilar." He slid the car into a space.

"I think it's worth investigating," she said slowly. "I think we need to look at the evidence again. Maybe if we can find out who was behind the last attempt, it'll crack this one open."

Mulder turned the ignition off and looked at her. "One of us would have to go back to D.C. for that."

She nodded. "That should be me. If there's no body to autopsy...." She trailed off. "And I think Markham wants your profiling skills, anyway."

"And what would Kersh say about you leaving the investigation?"

Scully squared her gaze with his. "First of all, I'm not leaving the investigation. And second, a few months ago Kersh would be the last thing you'd worry about."

"He's not the one who worries me," Mulder said, before he could stop himself.

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face. "I'll be fine."

Now it was his turn to shrug. "I don't really have a say in that."

Scully waited a beat. "And I'm fine now."

"I know that." He opened his door then, suddenly not wanting to look at her anymore. Cold bit into his cheeks and hands as they walked into the motel together.

Their rooms were next to each other. As they brought out their keycards she told him, "I'll book a rental car for tomorrow, try and leave as early as possible."

"Let me know when. I'll take you to the office."

She nodded, then something crossed her face as if she wanted to speak. But she only said, "Goodnight, Mulder," before going into her room and shutting the door.

*

81st Street  
New York, NY  
Tuesday, 4:25 am

Legare shuffled out from the kitchen with a cup of coffee. "Tastes like shit," he said, "but I just came back tonight. So you're lucky to have it anyway."

Krycek took the coffee and gulped it down. It burned, and it did indeed taste like shit, but he wasn't looking for Starbucks. He waited until his throat had recovered, then asked, "What was the assignment?"

Legare shrugged. "Same fuckin' bag. Three day haul in Miami, where they wear fuckin' shorts in January."

"Never been there."

"Just a buncha fuckin' pushers and fairies," Legare said amiably. Then he straightened. "You were in Philly, right? Is it true about Greer?"

"You knew Greer?"

"Fuckin' everybody knew Greer. What I heard was someone slit his throat. Is that true?"

Krycek nodded. Then he made a decision. He flipped through the file folder and pulled out the copies of the crime scene photos from the first victim. "Do you know this guy?"

Legare ran a thumb over his right eye and leaned forward. His mouth tightened as he studied the pictures. "That's Jasper, yeah. We were both in this one outfit a few years back. Now what in the fuck are these supposed to be?"

Krycek watched his face as he examined the cuts. "They look like eyes, don't they?" he asked carefully.

"I'll be damned," Legare whistled. "They do."

"There's another one dead, named Norton." Krycek brought out the second set of photos. "I knew him from D.C."

Legare studied them for a moment, then handed them back. "Never met him." He shrugged. "This fucker did this to Greer and Jasper both?"

"Looks like it. I got the forensics negatives from when they found Greer's body, and when the pictures came out it was the exact same thing."

Legare shook his head. "Well, who the fuck is this guy? What did the big boys have to say?"

"I'm meeting them tomorrow. That's why I'm in the city."

"Guess that means you're off the delivery route now."

Krycek didn't say anything.

Legare let the silence hang for a moment, then he shook his head again. "Well, if you're not talkin', I'm fuckin' tired and I'm going to sleep. You gonna be here tomorrow night as well?"

"Would that be a problem?"

Legare was already closing the door to his bedroom. "Just don't make a fuckin' lifestyle of it."

Krycek settled onto the ratty couch that was the apartment's only concession to comfort. Even the overhead light was washed out and sickly, and he had to squint to read Mulder's scratchy handwriting.

"he's a Messenger...know the receiver & you know the Message...Scully's right -- he's skilled at it...impersonal, he knows the victims but this is just Business...he likes those knives, probably thinks in b&w too...Argus is vision and reason, but fails b/c he's only sensory...who is the Messenger's argus?...if he can't see more than grayscale that is a weakness..."

It was oddly appropriate, thinking of Jun as some kind of Messenger. There was that golden fire in his eyes, like someone in the grip of religious fervor, and all his rambling knifetalk was his own personal evangelism.

Krycek circled Mulder's notes about Argus with his index finger. Nothing in the casefile indicated that he knew who the victims were. But unlike the Group, Krycek had learned not to underestimate the force of Mulder's intuition. Or Scully's, for that matter.

Know the receiver and you know the Message, Mulder had written. Krycek sifted through the pieces of his memory, wondering if the answer was there.

He remembered the first time he had gone before the Circle, still somewhat shell-shocked despite the long drive from D.C. Jun had brought him into New York and the car was gliding down 46th Street, and he remembered Jun telling him --

"Lion's den. Approaching on the right."

Krycek swiveled around and scanned the row of buildings. Which was it? They were all normal, unspectacular. But had he been expecting the Group to proclaim their presence with some kind of flaming banner?

"Good," he said. It was all he could think of to say.

Jun snorted. "You know nothing. Your eyes are open but you still see only the insides of your eyelids."

A spark of annoyance pierced Krycek's wonderings. He dragged his gaze from the window and looked at the other man. "What don't I know?"

Jun said nothing, instead guided the car toward the entrance of a parking garage.

The spark flared. "What don't I know?" Krycek repeated.

Jun stopped at the garage meter and turned to study Krycek, his golden eyes gleaming. "That slavery still exists."

*

Motel Six  
Philadelphia, PA  
6:47 am

Mulder had the dream again: the body covered with eyes, skin that watched him with neither intelligence nor cunning because it could do nothing else but watch. This time he dreamed that he could see the head of the body, and he woke up in a cold sweat when he realized that it was his own, gazing back at him with the same blank stare.

He sat rubbing his forehead for a moment. The moisture on his skin evaporated into the dry air of the motel room and seemed to take the dream with it. Finally he shook his head and peered at the clock. Scully was supposed to leave at seven.

Mulder dressed hurriedly, knocking softly on the connecting door. He wondered if she was still getting dressed herself, but thought she was probably just applying makeup. The idea of her without clothes made him oddly uncomfortable.

Then he realized there would be something new on her body now. He imagined the way her bullet wound must look, puckered scar tissue marring the smooth white flesh of her abdomen. His own stomach muscles clenched briefly.

He wondered how much she questioned the speed of her recovery. All of a sudden he was glad, fiercely glad, that she was leaving Philadelphia with its winter and its killer, if only briefly.

The door opened and there she was, fully dressed, laptop case slung on her shoulder. "You ready to go?" he asked, pushing his thoughts back down.

She nodded. "All set."

*

46th Street  
New York, NY  
10:58 am

The Circle had kept him waiting almost two hours now, and his pulse was jumping. He didn't really expect them all to be present -- they kept a five-member quorum and only convened the entire body at times of emergency. Krycek suspected he was anything but that, at the moment.

Still, making him wait was a mind game, one they'd been playing since he'd given them the Russian vaccine. They had let him back into the fold, but on their terms. He paced the hushed rooms of the outer chambers to dissipate his frustration.

Finally, the inner doors opened and the latest of their silent assistants beckoned him. Krycek squared his shoulders and strode inside.

He concealed his surprise through force of will. They were all there, sitting in a loose semi-circle of leather armchairs, cold eyes tracking him as he came to a halt at the front of the room. He looked back at each in turn, not quite insolent, not quite subservient.

Christ, even Spender had come.

"Alex Krycek," Aimes said, as if announcing him to the others. "What do you have for us?"

He paused to collect himself. There was a rhythm to question-and-answer sessions with the Circle, and he let himself step into it like a familiar dance. "I was unable to retrieve the access codes from Greer," he told them. "He was naked when his body was found and there was no other evidence at the crime scene." Krycek hesitated for only a millisecond, then plunged ahead. "I assumed his killer took the codes for himself."

He noticed some of them shifting.

"You read the John Doe file," Spender said. His lips spread in a grimace, and he took a drag on his cigarette. "Did you look at the forensics photos as well?"

Krycek met his gaze evenly. "I was ordered to dispose of them."

"How can we be sure you did that?"

"Because those were my orders."

Spender took another drag and blew out smoke.

Manetto spoke then. "Why do you think the killer would want those codes?"

"I don't know what the codes were for."

"But you assumed this was the reason for our associate's death."

Krycek shrugged. "It seemed a natural conclusion."

"Have you concluded anything about the identity of the killer?"

He let his gaze sweep the semi-circle. "Nothing I would put my name to."

Aimes stood and spread a series of glossy photographs on a nearby table. "Do you recognize this man?"

Krycek stepped forward and bent to look. And there was Jun, of course, in black and white as well as full color. A profile shot taken somewhere on a city street, an overhead of him running in jeans and a torn shirt, one of him looking back over his shoulder at something, one of him entering a building with a newspaper.

"Yes," he said finally. "His name is Jun. That's all I know."

"You know more than that," Spender snorted. "What did you make of the wounds on the victim's body?"

Don't blink. Don't look away from him. "They were...distinctive. But it wasn't my job to play detective."

Spender sneered.

"Enough," Manetto said. "Your new assignment is to find this man. By any means necessary."

Krycek raised his eyebrows. "And then what?"

Spender exhaled more smoke. "And then terminate with extreme prejudice."

*

600 Arch Street  
Philadelphia  
11:24 am

"You're thinking something," Markham said.

Mulder nodded. "I'm thinking our UNSUB is going to move north. He's followed that trajectory with the three victims, enough to assume a pattern."

"So you have a prediction where."

"Well, the thing is, he has a number of cities to choose from. Trenton, Newark. But I think he'll eventually go to New York. And then I think he'll settle there."

Markham studied the map in front of Mulder. "Maybe."

"I'm sure of it. He's escalating, only he's doing it on a much smaller timescale than your usual serial killers. The first victim was nine days ago, then he took one four days later, then another three days later. We're now on the second day since the third. I think we'll get another one tonight. And then we can expect the fifth tomorrow."

"Now you're extrapolating beyond --"

Mulder continued. "The accelerated timescale tells me he knows exactly who he's after. He's not someone who chooses a victim at random and works on him for days or even weeks before the kill. He has a specific agenda to fulfill, with a strict schedule."

Markham was silent for a moment. "I still don't see where you get New York out of this."

Mulder grinned. "It's the center of the universe, didn't you know that? And besides, I just have a feeling."

"A feeling." Markham's voice was flat. "We still don't have a working profile."

Mulder stopped smiling and shook his head. "Fine. I _know_ it. It'll be New York. Maybe not tonight, but tomorrow night for sure."

"After tomorrow night, there won't be any days left between victims."

Mulder shook his head again. "No. I think that'll be the end of the road for him."

*

47th Street  
New York  
12:13 pm

Krycek whipped around at the sound of footsteps. "Move where I can see you."

Spender stepped out from behind one of the parking garage's cement pillars. "Surely you don't expect to meet trouble in the middle of the day."

"Trouble doesn't care what time it is," Krycek snorted. "What do you want?"

"To give you some information." The other man lit a cigarette.

"In exchange for what?"

"In exchange for my not telling the Circle what you already know about our young friend Jun."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come now, Alex. Have you forgotten who first...introduced the two of you, shall we say?"

Krycek narrowed his eyes. "Maybe I should be asking if _they_ know that."

Spender shrugged. "My place in the Circle is secure now. I've made sure of that. You, however, hold a very tenuous position."

Krycek watched him warily.

"However, I can offer you my...protection." Spender inhaled and blew out smoke. "Especially now that the hybrid project is progressing so quickly. You know what success will mean."

Krycek spoke through a clenched throat, but his thoughts were racing. "What do you want from me? I'm not putting my ass on the line for your _protection_."

Spender clicked his tongue. "I'm not asking you to. You're to follow your orders exactly. I'm simply giving you information that will help you along. That and a piece of advice."

"I'll take the information, thanks."

He smiled over his raised cigarette, sharp and menacing. "Jun is only killing the associates he knows, because they are the only ones he has access to. But I believe he's decided to spare you, for some reason. That could be why you're not dead yet."

"You underestimate my capacity for survival," Krycek muttered, but he felt a cold wind in his chest.

"I doubt that. At any rate, it gives you an edge; perhaps it'll even allow you to approach him. So I'll tell you where you can find him next, and beyond that it's up to you to watch your back."

"You know where he is? Why don't you just kill him yourself?"

"I'd rather not have it come to that, Alex."

"You mean you'd rather have someone else do your dirty work for you. So where the hell is he?"

"He'll strike again in Newark. A man you know as Reiver." He dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his foot. "And Alex...I'll give you that piece of advice anyway."

"What?" Krycek was already thinking, planning, remembering Reiver and where he might be found.

"I warned you to watch your back," Spender said. "But remember that there are other ways to let your guard down."

*

Pennsylvania Avenue  
Washington, D.C.  
12:45 pm

Skinner could see the red flame of her hair in her car window as he drove along the third floor of the parking garage. She turned her head when he flashed his headlights and rolled her window down as he pulled into the space beside her and turned the car off. He scanned the floor again through his windows before getting out and walking around to her.

"It's good to see you, sir," she said. Even though they were inside a building, it was still cold enough for him to see her breath.

He almost laughed at her politeness. "Likewise."

"How's your health been?"

"Fine. And yours? I...heard about the shooting."

"I'm fine," she echoed him.

"Good," he said. "That's very good."

She let a beat pass, then asked, "What have you found out?"

"I don't have anything concrete to give you on this case," he began. "I'm still working on who assigned it to you."

Scully raised her eyebrows. "You'd better have _something_."

"Let's just say I wouldn't be surprised if it were one of your usual sources."

"That doesn't tell me a thing, Skinner."

"Maybe you'd better consult with your partner about it."

She glared at him. "I'm consulting with _you_."

"I will let you know if I find anything else out." Skinner made to leave, but she put a gloved hand on his arm.

"Wait. That's not the only reason I asked to meet with you."

He looked at her hand, the gentle but firm pressure of it. "What is it, Agent Scully?"

"It's the security photos. The ones with the bearded man you remember being in the Hoover Building. I need to see them again."

The buzzing of his nerves had turned into a full-fledged jangle but he kept his voice steady. "Why?"

"I have reason to believe whoever was behind the attempt on your life could have something to do with the case we're investigating in Philadelphia."

"What reason?"

"Do you even have to ask? You know who must be behind all this."

He cut her off. "Look, I don't have that file anymore. It disappeared from my office."

Her hand dropped from his arm. "What?"

"Someone must have stolen it," he lied. "It's been over a month now."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Her voice was brittle and hard.

Skinner matched his voice to hers. "Your role in the investigation -- such as it was -- is over. It shouldn't be any of your concern."

"Any of our concern?" She seemed to loom toward him through her car window. "Is this the same Walter Skinner I'm talking to, the one who regretted that he never chose sides? That he was never the kind of ally he should have been?"

"I'm _trying_ to be that ally," he told her. "That's why I asked for a fax of that casefile."

She spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm not talking about that one."

"The one you are talking about isn't related, Scully. Believe me."

"Why can't you let us find that out for ourselves?"

"Because," he said, "aside from the fact that I don't have those photos in my possession, it's just not your battle."

She shook her head at him. "An alliance works both ways, Skinner."

"Only in a situation where you could actually help."

Skinner turned away from her, just as another car pulled into a parking space at the other end of the floor.

After she drove off he sat a few minutes in his car, resting his forehead lightly on the steering wheel, eyes closed.

*

174 Rutgers Drive  
Newark, NJ  
4:30 pm

Krycek circled the apartment building twice before he finally walked up the front path, shuffling through slush and ice with every step. He searched for the name he was looking for on the directory outside and memorized the apartment number.

The cold seemed to seep under his skin now. He took a quick look around, then went to the back exit of the building. It was a simple matter from there to jimmy the lock and ghost up the stairs.

The hall outside Reiver's apartment was dark and silent, the air thick with menace. Krycek couldn't see where the light fixture was supposed to be located. He drew his gun and edged toward the door.

He gave himself a mental count and then burst through.

The menace he felt had multiplied tenfold. Krycek tiptoed through the late afternoon shadows of the quiet apartment, gun raised. There was a rich, coppery smell that he recognized as blood, strong enough to choke on. The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise.

A small kitchen area adjoined the main room, and off of the opposite wall were two doors. The first was open, the room visible from the kitchen. It was a tiny bathroom, and inside a man lay draped over the edge of the tub. Reiver.

Krycek could see the lifeless dangling of his arms and hands. He moved closer, just barely inside the doorway, catching sight of blood splashes on the white tiled floor. And something else inside the tub.

A river of darkness in the dim light, flowing from the open gash in Reiver's throat.

Krycek felt air moving behind him and spun.

His good arm was already raised before he realized that his gun had been knocked out of his grip and was skittering across the floor. Adrenaline surged through his muscles and he whirled around, leading with his prosthesis.

His opponent ducked beneath the blow -- Krycek glimpsed a shock of gold-colored hair -- then he felt his prosthesis grabbed and pulled behind him, felt it being pushed up his back. He pivoted hard, breaking free for a moment as the false arm twisted loose in his sleeve.

"...wha...?" he heard.

Then the other man was in motion again and a fist that felt like a hammer crashed into Krycek's stomach, driving him to his knees. He reached out blindly with his good arm and caught the cloth of a shirt as the man snaked behind him.

Then he felt the press of something cold and sharp and deadly familiar against his throat.

Krycek stilled instantly. "Don't."

Hot breath in his ear, along his cheek. "Don't? _Don't_? Don't _you_ know better than to tell _me_ don't?"

"Who...?"

But of course, he knew already. The voice like ripples on a black pond.

"Don't play stupid. I know you've been looking for me." The pressure on the blade didn't decrease. "It is as impossible for a man to be cheated by anyone but himself..."

Something in Krycek's head lurched and he felt memory speaking for him, through him. "...as for a thing to be, and not to be, at the same time," he finished.

"Exactly."

Muscles coiled and sprang without thought. Krycek shoved himself away from the knife's edge and lashed out with his loose prosthesis. Jun was already in motion again -- he heard the ineffectual brush of cloth, and then the other man was on him.

*

174 Rutgers Drive  
Newark, NJ  
5:38 pm

Krycek became aware again because of the sound of his breathing, which seemed to be coming through a tube half filled with water. Not water -- something else. Something dank and thick and viscous. His thoughts were broken and scattered, the jagged edges of them piercing the flesh inside his head. The pain was bright, pushing him out of the thickness.

Gradually Krycek realized that something was cutting into his right arm, not a knife but a tight piece of wire, one long piece that had been wrapped around him many times, binding him to a chair. He tried to move his arm away from it but of course that was impossible. The wire was everywhere, all over him like a crushing embrace.

Then he realized another thing. There was someone moving toward him out of the dimness, a figure that loomed as it got closer, then finally bent down so that he could feel the heat of its cheek next to his own.

"Good," Jun said into his ear. "You're awake. Unfortunately Reiver won't be taking any visitors tonight. But don't worry, you and I can catch up on old times."

*

600 Arch Street  
Philadelphia  
5:38 pm

Mulder stood at the window of the conference room. The sky had already turned a deep purple, with only a fading flame of orange and pink glimpsed over the tops of buildings.

He turned at the sound of the door opening behind him, thinking it was too early for Markham to be back with the takeout they had ordered.

But instead it was Scully, looking trim and neat. She set her laptop case on the table and came up close to him. Mulder checked her for signs of fatigue, but saw nothing. She did look pensive, however.

"I ran into Markham on my way in. You think we'll get another body tonight?"

Mulder nodded. "We'll want to guard it this time."

"I could just do the autopsy as soon as they bring it in."

He held himself back from suggesting she get some sleep instead. He decided to change the subject. "The lab couldn't get anything from those security photos?"

She looked out the window. The sun had disappeared completely. "I didn't want to tell you over the phone," she said. "The photos have disappeared."

"What?"

"I met with Skinner in D.C. He said they were stolen from his office. Then I checked with Bureau Security, and the tapes themselves have disappeared. They've launched an internal investigation, but since Skinner never told anyone but us about the connection between the bearded man and his illness, it's not quite task force priority."

Mulder's mouth twisted. "You want to believe Skinner on that, too?"

Scully shook her head. "I don't, but at the same time, I just don't know anymore." She sighed. "Mulder, I _want_ to trust him. He looked positively haggard. Tired and stressed. I think we both forget that he almost died a few months ago."

"Is that supposed to make me trust him more or less, the fact that he has a personal stake in this?" Disgust tinged his voice. "It only implies that he's hiding the evidence from us."

"Don't we have personal stakes as well?"

He barely heard her. "What did he say about our case?"

"He said the two weren't related. And he told me he was still trying to find out who assigned us. He hinted at something as well."

"What?"

"That perhaps it was one of our other 'sources', he said." She looked at him curiously. "He told me especially to consult with you about it. Do you have someone new?"

Mulder shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "No one's contacted me, not since...not since the Englishman died."

She studied him. "Look, Mulder, I know there have been people in the past that you haven't told me about --"

"No one's contacted me, Scully." He looked straight at her without blinking.

"Okay, then." She turned away and began unpacking her laptop, leaving him to stare out the window again.

*

174 Rutgers Drive  
Newark, NJ  
9:12 pm

Jun held the prosthetic arm up to the moonlight and examined it. "When did this happen?"

"Couple of years ago. Long story."

The other man grinned, his mouth a dark slash in the shadows of his face. "I like stories." He gestured toward the bathroom where Reiver's body was draped over the edge of the bathtub. "You have a while to spin yours."

Krycek sighed, flexing his good arm and then wincing when the wire bit into his skin.

"Well?" Jun said.

Krycek shifted, felt a muscle in his side cry out at the movement, and went still again. "It happened in Russia," he muttered. "They thought they were doing it for my own good."

"Strange customs those Russians have."

Krycek shook his head. The dark pit of memory was churning up again. So much that had been buried was now floating to the surface. "They've been working on a vaccine for the black oil," he tried to explain. "They have a...site...where they test it on people. Those who live in the area know -- they know a lot of -- what goes on. If you don't have a left arm, you can't be given the test. So."

"You explain so much, but at the same time you speak in circles." Jun balanced the prosthesis on the windowsill, where the pale light made it look eerily like a real arm.

"Why the fuck are you so curious?" Krycek snarled suddenly. "Finish whatever you're doing with Reiver and leave me the fuck alone."

Jun's voice was mild. "I understand that losing a limb would arouse feelings of anger in you, even years later, but I wasn't the one who cut it off." He paused. "Why did you allow it to happen?"

For a moment Krycek's throat clenched so hard he thought he might not be able to breathe again. The memories were coming up fast and furious now and he shook his head. "I didn't fucking _allow_ anything," he managed. "They came on me while I was asleep."

"Why were you in Russia to begin with?"

"I didn't go willingly," Krycek snapped. "It was either that or be left handcuffed to a steering wheel."

"And here I was thinking you were a professional killer. How did you end up in such a bind?"

His body screamed as he shifted again. "I was arrested by some FBI agents."

"FBI?" Jun sounded thoughtful. "That wouldn't be Agent Mulder, would it?"

Krycek stared at the prosthesis on the windowsill and didn't answer.

"I only ask because my employer seems to take a great interest in him."

His head popped up at that. "You mean Spender?"

Jun stepped into a puddle of moonlight, so Krycek could see the expression on his face. His muscles, tired and aching already, gave an involuntary shiver. "I don't work for them anymore," Jun said. "Far from it."

"Then...who?"

Jun looked at him as if he could count every pore in his skin. "Let's just say that my employer and Mulder have a long mutual history."

*

600 Arch Street  
Philadelphia, PA  
10:08 pm

"It's after ten already." Scully showed him her watch. "Do you have a more precise prediction of when we'll get this call?"

Mulder looked up at her. "I wasn't expecting anything for another hour or so." He chewed his lip. "Maybe you should sleep or something. I'll wake you."

She raised a disapproving eyebrow at him.

"You've had a long day. And we haven't even gotten to the difficult part yet."

"That isn't any more strenuous than other cases we've worked," she pointed out.

"Yes, but this is different." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

She nodded, as if something had fallen into place. "Mulder, I'm only going to say this once. You need to trust that I can do my job. I wouldn't be allowed in the field otherwise, so that must mean my superiors have at least that much faith in me."

He looked down at his pen, which his fingers were rolling idly back and forth on the table. How to say the million counterarguments that kept buzzing around in his head? He swallowed, tasting something acrid in his throat.

"Mulder?"

He realized she was waiting for a response to what she had said and sighed. "Scully, I trust your abilities. I...have faith in them. What I don't have faith in is the work."

He looked up to see an evaluating expression on her face. "But you're still doing it," she said.

Mulder shrugged. "There's only so much more I can take before I won't any longer. Before I can't."

"Why is it just you that's doing the taking? I'm right here beside you with these abilities you put so much trust in."

He had to avert his eyes from her gaze. "It's just..."

It was just so many things. A lifetime poured into a sinking ship, the long unspooling of years that had gone for zero positive results when it came to finding his sister, and into the fucking negative when it came to Scully herself.

He was never able to decide to his satisfaction whether he believed in destiny or not, but looking back on the linked chains of his life he couldn't help but see a pattern of death, of loss. It was a pattern she had become a part of before either of them could fully understand the consequences. Now that they did, he'd be goddamned if he was going to keep letting some shadow men yank them around until either Scully or he made the final sacrifice.

"It's just _what_?" Scully asked, her tone flat.

His mouth worked, trying to form words that would make her understand. She had accused him before of thinking everything was about himself. But this -- this was without question about her. The problem was, if he had ever been able to say this in the past, he would have done so already.

He shook his head. She was looking at him with those angry blue eyes and all of his reasonings dried up in his throat.

"I don't know, Scully," he told her. "Look, forget I said anything. I do trust you. There is no question about that."

She held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding finally and turning away.

Mulder sighed. He did trust her, of course. But sometimes trust wasn't enough.

*

174 Rutgers Drive  
Newark, NJ  
11:23 pm

Jun was standing in the bathroom doorway, taking a scalpel out of a small black case. His hands were already covered in latex gloves. "I hope you'll excuse me," he said. "Reiver and I should have left an hour ago."

"So sorry to ruin your evening." A trickle of blood in his throat made him cough, and Krycek immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

"You were the one who crashed the party." Jun turned and knelt beside the bathtub, arms disappearing into its depths. "Though it looks like you should have stayed home."

"Fuck you," Krycek muttered.

Jun chuckled and turned back to the bathtub. "What were your orders, anyway? To bring me back in? Re-indoctrinate me to the Plan? Or did they just tell you to kill me?"

Krycek clenched his jaw and didn't answer.

"They don't have to worry about the first option," Jun said. "They'll be hearing from me soon enough."

"What, you think you're going to do to them what you're doing to Reiver?"

This time it was Jun who stayed silent.

Krycek sat and watched the moonlight spilling from the windows. His arm was screaming from the harsh wire cutting into his flesh, but even that sensation had begun to pulse in and out as his nerves began to lose feeling. His head was still drumming an insistent war beat, and he could only breathe through one nostril.

But he was alive, for all of that. He remembered what the smoking man had said, about Jun sparing him. Not a theory he was going to put all his faith in, but one he was willing to work with for the time being.

He could hear soft thudding sounds coming from the bathroom, and knew it was Jun moving Reiver's body around. He wondered if all the blood had drained out of it yet.

"Why do you do that to the bodies?" he asked, partly to keep his mind off the pain. "I mean, why do you cut them?"

"Maybe I just like the pattern." Jun sounded amused.

"But why that one? Why eyes?"

"Why not?"

"You are doing this for a reason, aren't you? You're not just killing these men because you feel like it."

"Correct."

"You want to tell someone something, otherwise why waste time with all that cutting, why risk getting caught?"

"I see you've still got a bit of the FBI agent in you."

"You're not going to share with me what this message is?"

"The intended recipients of my _message_ , as you call it, know well enough what it is. That's apparent from your presence here."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. You've got your head buried in the sand. Let's just say that the eyes are a warning."

"Against what?"

"Against blindness."

Jun came out of the bathroom, picking up something long and black that Krycek hadn't noticed before. A body bag. He could hear the rustle of the plastic as Jun went back to Reiver and laid him inside the tub. More thuds as the body was rolled into the bag, rustling again, then a heavy zipper closing. Snaps as Jun took off his latex gloves.

"Time for us to go," he said regretfully. "I'm leaving one of my strongest blades here, on the edge of the bathtub. Once I'm gone you can make your way over and get rid of those wires."

Krycek felt something leap up in his throat. "Why? You're not going to kill me like the others?"

Jun appeared in the doorway to the bathroom again. "Killing you would be a violation of my orders."

Krycek raised an eyebrow in surprise, but it was too dark for the other man to see.

"You have a fatal flaw, Krycek," Jun said. "Do you know what it is?"

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"It's this: you are _not_ adaptable. Anyone else in your position would have escaped those wires, or at least would have made an _effort_. But you? You've sat there all night and barely moved anything except your mouth."

Krycek glared at him.

"I understand now why you were forced to go to Russia, perhaps even why you let yourself get drawn into the Group in the first place." Jun's voice slowed, thickening and gaining weight. "When you find yourself in a trap, the only thing you know how to do is wait for someone else to get you out of it."

"Fuck off," Krycek snarled. "What you don't know about me could fill a fucking galaxy."

Jun shrugged. "If I had optimum time and circumstances, I would prove it to you. But at any rate, I have a feeling we'll meet again."

"That's because I'll fucking make sure of it."

An amused snort. "Then I look forward to getting my knife back."

He turned then and hefted the body bag out of the bathtub, slinging it over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. From the chair Krycek watched him move toward the door, gliding through the shadows of the apartment like he didn't notice he was carrying the burden of a full-grown man. Then Jun was past his line of vision and a moment later Krycek heard the door open and latch shut.

Jun was gone.

*

Essex County Morgue  
Newark, NJ  
Wednesday, 4:25 am

It was well after midnight when they got the call. They had driven to Newark in their own car, following Markham's taillights the entire way. The other agent was grim-faced as he moved around the crime scene, another snow-lined alley. "You were right," he had said to Mulder. "But goddamn, I wish you were wrong."

The forensics teams finally wrapped up around a quarter to four, and Markham left to find a motel. Mulder had taken one look at the circles under Scully's eyes and elected to accompany her to the morgue.

He tried not to make it obvious that he was staring at her as she tied on the blue surgical mask. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but when she had come out of the changing area her skin looked bleached of color. Even her eyes seemed to reflect the white fluorescents like pieces of glass.

Mulder shook the image out of his head as Scully snapped a pair of latex gloves on. She walked over and handed him a pair as well, along with a mask and hair cover.

"I need help with the body," she said. "There aren't any other assistants."

He looked at her. "You're sure you want to do this now?"

"We need whatever we can get out of this autopsy report, if you think the killer is accelerating."

"But we also need to be functioning properly the next time he strikes."

"Which, according to your calculations, will be in less than twenty-four hours. If we can get something out of this autopsy report that'll break this case open, maybe we can prevent that."

Mulder put on the gear as Scully pulled out John Doe #2483's refrigerated drawer and moved the autopsy table up next to it. He was suddenly relieved to have the mask on, so she couldn't see his grimace. John Doe under those bright lights looked even more gruesome than he had in the snowy alley where he'd been found.

He helped her move the body from the drawer to the table, and then he watched from a corner of the room as she arranged its position on the block and began taking measurements and samples.

His eyes were inevitably drawn to the body itself, though. Succumbing to its pull, he tried to place himself inside the Messenger's head, studying the cuts as if they were words telling a story, as if he'd written them himself. Smooth, smooth curves and delicate arches winging around a perfect circle, just barely touching at the tips. He imagined the feel of unblooded flesh just beneath the skin and shuddered lightly.

"Scully," he murmured. She looked up. "Have you wondered whether these victims _deserved_ to die?"

"What are you talking about?"

"If they're who we think they are." She had a scalpel in her hand, the blade still clean and glinting at him. "Did Luis Cardinal deserve to die?"

"No." Her voice was sharp. "That's why we have a judicial system. So men like these can be prosecuted for what they've done."

Mulder gaped at her, feeling a sudden urge to laugh. "You still think that's possible?"

Scully's brow furrowed and she lowered the scalpel. "Then why are we on this case? _Someone_ wants us to catch someone else."

"If you had Alex Krycek in front of you right now, what would you do? Would you shoot him or handcuff him?"

"Are you saying I could choose the former? Why? Just because I think he'd deserve it?"

He shook his head. "Because all other attempts to bring Krycek to justice have failed. Maybe the only way to stop someone like that is to take him down."

"Cold-blooded murder? Then you're no better than Krycek."

"But what about all the pain and suffering you could prevent? If it was one man's life against countless others. Or even four men's lives."

"That's like arguing about whether someone should have killed Hitler before the Holocaust. Would you have done it?"

Mulder nodded slowly. "Six million people and one man. Yes, I would have done it."

Scully shook her head. "I don't know if I could make the same statement about these victims. I'm a _doctor_."

"But you're also an FBI agent, trained to protect."

"And you're talking about killing that's outside of the law."

He looked back at the body lying on the table, naked and vulnerable to whatever might happen to it now. "You know the men we suspect they worked for," he said. "You know what they're doing isn't much different from the Nazis."

She sighed and he turned to her again. "I do know. And maybe...maybe part of me also agrees with you. But it's not a noble act, Mulder, no matter what the stakes."

He raised his eyebrows. "But if you really thought it was necessary, would you care?"

Scully shook her head. "I guess it depends on what you mean by 'necessary.' I'd like to believe I'm a long way from reaching that point." She held his gaze for a moment longer, then went back to her autopsy.

*

81st Street  
New York, NY  
7:49 am

Sunlight smiting his face, crashing through his eyelids like a train wreck. Krycek groaned awake and pulled himself to a sitting position on the ratty couch. He blinked at the light, dreams falling apart, scattered images sinking into the sea of his subconscious.

Finally he managed to lurch up and stand on his feet, reaching automatically for his gun. He shoved it into his pants and stumbled over to Legare's kitchen area, ducking his head under the running faucet. The cold water combined with the morning chill to shock his nerves into alertness.

There was nothing edible in sight except for a Chinese takeout carton of dry white rice, shoved into the corner next to the sink. Krycek scraped at the rice with his fingers, loosening it up enough so he could tilt the carton into his mouth.

His arm screamed with the movement, but he ignored it. In fact, his entire body sent up a veritable horror show of weeping and groaning, including the cuts on his lips and face, but Krycek ignored those too.

The sound of the front door unlocking made him grab for his gun, but he recognized Legare's voice. He left the gun stuck in his waistband, but kept his hand on it.

Then he saw who was coming in behind Legare and drew it out anyway.

"Good morning, Alex," Spender hummed.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" He kept the barrel lowered, but backed up a step to give himself room.

Legare raised his eyebrows. "Put the fuckin' piece away. Spender just wants to talk to you."

"Why not at headquarters?"

"I was in the neighborhood. Why waste the opportunity?" Spender smiled, his lips scaly and gray like a reptile's.

"So what do you want?"

"I have another task for you." He glanced at Legare. "Wait outside until we're finished."

The other man faded back out through the doorway. Krycek watched him go. "Everyone follows your orders now, no questions."

"It's entirely possible to reassume former status and responsibilities, provided you play by the rules." Spender drew a cigarette out and lit it, inhaling with a rasping breath. "You always played the game well, but you kept forgetting the most important rule of all: don't get caught."

"No, I think the most important rule to remember is that everyone around you is an ass-pirating son of a bitch."

Spender smiled again. "You'd certainly know all about that."

Krycek brought the gun down to his side. "What's this job you want me to do? I figured you'd be here about Reiver."

"I already know you were unsuccessful. The body was autopsied last night, by none other than Agent Scully. Not that she'll find anything useful there. As for your task, I need to know if you saw any papers or disks in Reiver's apartment."

"What?"

"I have reason to believe he had possession of several documents the Group would consider very important. Did you see them?"

"I was a little too busy to go snooping around Reiver's shit."

"You'll have to go back. Search the apartment and make sure. I need to know if Jun took them."

"Look, I'm not doing fuck all for you until you tell me who Jun's working for."

"You're assuming his actions have been commissioned. Yet it's possible, isn't it, for an employed man to still act as a free agent."

"What kind of employer would allow _this_? He's got the FBI at our fucking front door."

"You were never very good at putting the pieces together either, Alex." Spender took a drag and blew out again. "Any employer who would _allow_ that is one who seeks to gain from our exposure."

"That's fucking everybody," Krycek snarled.

Spender shook his head and dropped the cigarette into the sink, where it fizzled in a puddle of water. "I have my suspicions. I recognize trademark strategies." He paused, studying Krycek with his cold eyes. "There are others who eventually didn't care to play the game anymore. And if I'm correct..."

"If you're correct _what_?"

"If I'm correct, more than one person in the Group would have an interest in proving me wrong." Spender's lips spread in that reptile smile again. "Contact me when you've reacquired our documents."

*

Days Inn  
Newark, NJ  
8:00 am

Someone was shrieking at him, a wordless urgent cry. But instead of looking for the source he covered his ears and tried to burrow into the ground, headfirst like a mole. The dirt slid around him, warm and smooth and earthy smelling. But the shrieking only continued, and then it seemed like he made a wrong turn and fell face forward into the sun.

Mulder's eyes snapped open, snapped back shut. Phone, not shrieking. Cell phone ringing. Motherfucker. He groped blindly with his hand and found it on the nightstand.

"What," he said. Then he thought it might not be Scully. "Mulder."

"Good morning," said a voice. "I know you had a long night, but please pay attention. What I have to say is of the utmost importance."

It seemed like an alarm clock was in his head, rattling against the walls of his skull. He jammed the heel of his other hand into his eyes, rubbing furiously. "Who is this?"

"Someone who has a great interest in your case." The voice was male, dry and brittle like kindling. Familiar.

Mulder sat up. "Who _is_ this?"

"We have the same goal, Agent Mulder. To find the real killers. I'm giving you that opportunity now. You must expose them before it's too late."

"What are you talking about?"

"These people -- these so-called victims -- they belong to an organization whose machinations you've come to know, if not understand. They, as I'm sure you'll agree, are the true criminals."

Mulder's thoughts whirled, formed a readable shape. "Who are you? How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"The man you found last night is named Nathan Reiver. He was one of the organization's operatives. An assassin, if you will. He was killed at his residence in Newark last night. 174 Rutgers Drive."

"Who killed him?"

" _Who_ is unimportant."

"Fine. Why, then?"

"Exactly," the voice said. "Continue with your investigation, Agent Mulder."

The line went dead.

*

9:18 am

Scully was perched on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a white robe and speaking quietly to Skinner on the phone. Mulder sat a few feet away at the table, watching her. The light from the window was shell-like, falling on her hair and forehead and illuminating her skin in white gold.

He slid his fingers over the stubble on his chin, waiting.

Finally she hung up and turned to him. "He's going to look up this Nathan Reiver in the criminal database and then call us. Maybe his higher access will be of some help."

"Good."

"When are we going to tell Markham?" she asked.

"I think we should wait until after we go to Reiver's place," Mulder said. "Make sure this isn't a dead end."

Scully raised her eyebrow. "Just how far are you expecting to follow this lead without him? This is his case."

"This goes way beyond Markham, beyond the FBI. You know that. The call I received is the first real proof of what we've been suspecting."

"Are you sure you couldn't place the voice? If it was one of the old informants --"

"What, back from the dead?" He laughed hollowly. "No, it was familiar, but not that familiar. But I know he gave me Reiver's address for a reason. There's something for us to find there."

"Something for us, Markham and a forensics team."

"I'd rather not assemble a team without reason first. If just the two of us went, we won't have wasted anything but the morning. Besides, we'd just be sitting around waiting for Skinner anyway."

"It would be asking for trouble to go alone." She shook her head. "Especially if something went wrong. Which it usually does."

He wasn't surprised at her protests. It was always like balancing a set of scales with her, dropping weights carefully on each side until she leaned the way he wanted.

"I don't think we have a lot of other options," he began. "You said you didn't find anything in your autopsy.

"I said it was less than conclusive. But we haven't gotten tox screens back on the victim or put him through the usual databases."

"Skinner's doing that right now, and with a name, even."

She sighed and cinched her robe tighter.

Mulder stood. "Look, you asked me to trust your abilities. Would you rather I went by myself?"

"No," she flashed. "I would rather we did this with our heads."

He moved for the door. "I'm leaving in fifteen minutes. Come with me or don't come with me."

"Mulder," he heard her call, but he was already out in the hallway and the door shut on her voice.

*

174 Rutgers Drive  
Newark, NJ  
10:02 am

For some reason the back entry to Reiver's apartment smelled like week-old trash, a sickly sweet rot that made his head throb. Stepping lightly toward the building Krycek saw why. Garbage had been strewn about, plastic bags cut open and the contents spilled onto the snow. Unsurprising, given the neighborhood; probably homeless people looking for food or kids looking for trouble.

The building itself was quiet. As he moved through it, the halls sometimes leaked sounds from inside the apartments, noises he could discern as voices or television. It was cold as well, without central heating, and dark despite the weak light bulbs at regular intervals.

Reiver's door was unlatched.

He watched it fall open in slow motion beneath the faint pressure of his prosthesis, feeling his right hand plow through air that suddenly seemed thick as molasses, toward the gun where it rested in his waistband. His fingers clenched around the grip, pulling it out, slow, so goddamn slow. And it was suddenly heavy, the weight of it wanting to drag his hand back down to the ground. The door was already open wide by the time he had his arm fully extended, the gun pointing into the living room.

There was no one there. It was empty.

Krycek hesitated, looking back down the hall at the door to the stairwell. Then he peered into the apartment again. It was silent and still, from what he could see of it. He could feel the distant thunder of his heart, the taut readiness of his own body.

He crept forward on the balls of his feet, his gun pointed in front of him. There was the window Jun had propped his prosthesis on, the glass muddy yet shining with sunlight. There was the chair, wire still coiled loosely around the bars. He could still smell blood in the air, a thought flickering over his mind like a tongue of flame: was his own contributing to it?

The bathroom door was open, and as he drew near he could see the end of the tub. And he could see also Dana Scully as she moved into the doorway from inside the bathroom, slow, so goddamn slow, dressed in black that seemed to suck every last photon of light from the air. He could see her blue eyes go wide as they met his and her entire form go rigid, her mouth falling open and showing him the white row of her teeth.

"Don't move," he heard himself say, and the world rushed back then. Time was speeding up, the air thinning again, the gun going almost weightless with the change.

"Krycek," she spat.

"Don't fucking talk. Where's Mulder?"

That was when he heard the front door shut, and the click of a safety going off.

"Right here," Mulder said from behind him.

*

Hoover Building  
Washington, D.C.  
10:02 am

Skinner flipped through the latest expense report from the X-Files division as he waited for Reiver's dossier to load. It had been written by Agent Jeffrey Spender, the dry capable prose listing the rationale for each of the previous month's expenditures -- motel rooms, rental cars, gasoline, restaurants. Occasionally there were more questionable citations, for instance the purchase of a college newspaper, or a handheld air pump, but these were all carefully explained. Not to mention far less bizarre than some of the items in the expense reports the previous occupants of the office had handed in. He snorted as he came to the last page and saw the total amount was about fifty percent less than Mulder's average.

A small window popped up on his computer screen, asking him to reconfirm his password. He put the expense report away and typed it in.

Reiver's dossier included mug shots taken in early 1990, when he was arrested for drug possession with intent to distribute, but he supposed Mulder and Scully already had a good idea what the man looked like. His criminal record was sparse, with only one other arrest for minor possession, but that was actually typical of the more large-scale figures in the FBI's list of suspected offenders.

He clicked on a few links and found his assessment was correct. The Bureau had questioned Reiver in late 1996 in connection with the trafficking of donor organs stolen from hospitals in several states. Apparently the Bureau had managed to convict several members of the ring, although by no means all of them. Reiver was never arrested, due to insufficient evidence.

They had kept investigating him, though. Agents staked out his residence for almost an entire month after the initial bust and trailed his movements. They did it again for another month after the trials. His phone was tapped and his car bugged, but the FBI was never able to garner enough to reopen the case.

The most recent stakeout was in October of 1998. Skinner opened the investigative report and scanned through it.

The agents on duty had noted that in the course of a week, Reiver visited an empty warehouse outside of New York City no less than three times. However, the owners of the warehouse were a private company, and they had informed the agents that Reiver was employed as one of their part-time security guards. Subsequent excursions to the warehouse by the agents also came up empty-handed.

No other suspicious activity had been recorded.

Skinner rubbed his jaw, clicking quickly through the rest of the dossier. Outside of the stolen organs and the warehouse, there seemed to be nothing else that might connect Reiver to the kind of conspiracy Scully was looking for. Neither was there any indication of violent crime or political affiliations in Reiver's record, unlike Alex Krycek's or Luis Cardinal's.

At the thought of Krycek, Skinner flexed his hand uneasily around his chin. The other man hadn't contacted him since that night in his office, but Skinner had no doubt he would be hearing from Krycek again.

He pushed the thought away and picked up his phone, dialing Scully's cell. After four rings he was preparing himself to leave her a voicemail, but then her voice came on the line.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully," he said. "It's AD Skinner. Is everything all right?" She sounded strange to him, strained.

"Yes, I'm fine. Did you find something for us?"

"An address, and a bit of background." He relayed the information he'd just learned. She asked him to repeat the address of the warehouse for her. "858 South Bend Road," he said slowly.

"Thank you," she told him, and hung up.

He looked at the phone in his hand, shook his head and put it back in its receiver. She was busy, that was all.

Another window popped up when he logged out of the dossier. "Last ten users," it read. His own logon ID, "w.skinner@fbi.gov," was at the top of the list, with the date and the time he had signed in.

What caught his eye was the user just beneath him, or rather, the date of the user's login. A "t.markham" had accessed the dossier only a few hours ago. That would have been Agent Markham, he surmised.

Odd, that Scully had asked him to look at Reiver's dossier if Markham was already on it. But then, he wouldn't be surprised if Mulder had managed to frost relations with yet another fellow agent in the middle of a case.

Kimberly came in just then with another pile of forms that needed reviewing before he could sign them, and by the time they broke for lunch he'd more or less forgotten about Markham.

*

174 Rutgers Drive  
Newark, NJ  
10:15 am

"Thank you," Scully said, and thumbed her phone off. Her gaze hadn't left Krycek's face. "What do you know about Reiver and stolen organs?" she demanded of him.

Mulder looked at Krycek handcuffed to the radiator and saw his eyes shift. "Answer her." He raised his gun a bit.

"I know it's not why he died," Krycek said. "That's an old project."

Scully leaned forward slightly. "And just how many projects do they have?"

"You're asking the wrong questions." Krycek straightened abruptly and Mulder was suddenly glad he'd put the safety back on.

"You know, I get tired of people telling me that," he said. "Why don't you sing a different song for once and just give us the right fucking answers?"

Krycek's face was blank and calm. "Because you've never been able to do the right things with the right fucking answers."

"All right," Scully said. "What's at 858 South Bend Road?"

"I don't know. What's it supposed to be?"

"An empty warehouse outside of New York City. What do you know about it?"

"There's an army of empty warehouses outside the city. You expect me to recognize yours just because you give me the address?"

"Sounds like one of those places where they run old projects," Mulder said.

"I'm sure you'd know, considering how many you _haven't_ managed to put a stop to."

"Krycek." Scully's voice was gritty, her eyes hard blue. "You are not in a position to be cataloguing anyone's shortcomings here. I suggest you start telling us the truth. Now."

"I've been _telling_ you the fucking truth."

"You still haven't said what you were looking for in this apartment."

"I told you I didn't know what I was supposed to find. That's true."

Mulder looked at him. "Who ordered you to come here?"

Krycek smirked, the first expression he had shown them yet. "One of your old pals, actually. I'm sure you'd know him by the ever-present stench of cigarette smoke."

"Son of a bitch," Mulder murmured.

"Don't tell me you're surprised," Krycek said. "You've never made more than a dent in any of his plans."

"I'm sure that's what you like to tell yourselves," Scully said coldly. "Mulder, I think we should search this place for whatever he was looking for and get out of here."

"Agreed."

"I'll check the other room. You can look around here." She left.

Mulder turned back to Krycek, studying the other man's face. There was a cut high on his cheek, another on his lip. Both his mouth and his nose looked swollen, and one of his eyebrows was ragged.

Krycek met his scrutiny with dark, mocking eyes.

"What happened to you?" Mulder asked.

"Ran into an old friend."

"What, literally?"

Krycek glared. "Didn't anyone ever tell you to mind your own fucking business?"

Mulder gave a dry laugh. "Didn't anyone ever tell you I make everything my business?" He was quiet a moment, then said slowly, "It was you, wasn't it? You infected Skinner with those nanocytes."

Krycek said nothing, his eyes still mocking.

"I'm right, aren't I? We had security photos. I'd know you anywhere, Krycek."

Silence.

"Why did you do it? What did you have to do with that Senate bill? Dammit, answer me!"

"You're a child, Mulder," Krycek said finally. "And there are many things you'll never understand."

"How can I understand unless you tell me the truth?"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about."

They locked gazes for a moment, Krycek's eyes burning, and Mulder struggled not to look away first.

Scully's voice called from the bedroom. "Mulder, I need your help."

He left Krycek without another word.

Inside the room she was standing in a corner, staring at the ceiling. "Do you see that?" she asked. "Those lines in the paint?"

He looked up. The ceiling was not plastered but instead painted smooth white, except where she was pointing. There was a faint bulge interrupting the plane of the ceiling, bordered by two thin lines meeting in a right angle. "Yeah, I do. It looks like...it looks like there's something under that paint. Should we try cutting it out?"

"I don't suppose we have another choice, if it's what we're looking for."

"I'll get a knife." He went out into the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets. They were all empty.

"What are you looking for?" Krycek asked.

"A knife."

He thought he heard something like a laugh from the other man. He glanced up, and Krycek nodded his head toward the bathroom. "Look in the toilet," he said.

Mulder pursed his lips and went to check. A flash of foresight told him to pull on a pair of latex gloves. He did so, then lifted the top of the commode and fished out the knife.

It was about as lethal-looking as he could imagine. The black handle had finger grips, and the blade was straight and sharp. He stared at it for a moment, then went back out into the main room. "Is this yours?" he asked Krycek.

"What do you think?"

"I think it belongs to a man I'm looking for. The man who killed Reiver."

"I guess you win the grand prize."

"What I want to know is, what's your connection to him? How did you know the knife was there?"

Krycek sneered. "We're old friends."

*

Mulder managed to use just the tip of the knife to cut through the paint on the ceiling. He passed it back to Scully, also wearing latex gloves, then used his fingers to wedge out the rest.

"It's an envelope," he said, surprised. "A manila envelope."

She waited until he hopped down from the bed with the envelope in his hands. It was a package envelope, the kind with plastic bubble wrap lining the inside. Paint was still stuck to it, a thick layer that Mulder broke off around the edges, but it could still be opened. When he pulled out a sheaf of documents they were dry and undamaged.

"Look at this, Scully." She leaned into him and he flipped through the papers.

"That's an inventory of standard lab equipment," she said, pointing to one. "And that looks like a schematic for gas and water tubing."

"Do you recognize these chemicals?"

"Of course. They're the notations for ethanol and oxygen. This one is sulfuric acid. But these symbols...they're nucleic acids, and these are amino acids." Scully frowned. "There are some anesthetics on this list, too."

"Any idea what they could be for?"

"Most of it looks like what you'd normally have in a genetics lab, Mulder. But the rest of it..." She read for a moment, her lips moving. "I'm not sure."

"But don't we know something about these men and genetic engineering? I think we'd better ask our favorite double agent out there what he can make of all this."

Krycek looked at the papers for a total of two seconds. "Hybridization," he said.

"How do you know?" Mulder demanded.

"The code number at the top -- and because it makes sense. It's the smoking man's project, and he was the one who sent me here. Apparently, it was for those documents."

Mulder swore. "858 South Bend Road must be where it's taking place. We need to go there, Scully. Now."

"Are you fucking insane?" Krycek said. "You don't want to go anywhere _near_ one of that bastard's projects."

Scully ignored him. "We can't go without backup. And besides, you're leaping."

"Scully," he pressed, "it makes sense. Reiver was preparing the place as a laboratory for hybridization."

She looked skeptical, but said, "Look, if they're really doing something out there we're going to need proof. Witnesses."

"What do you suggest?"

"I think we should call Markham. Tell him to bring in a SWAT team. If we storm the building, maybe we can catch them in the act."

Mulder weighed the options. "Fine, call him."

She pulled out her phone and dialed. Mulder stuffed the papers back into the envelope.

Krycek shook his head. "If you think this is going to work, you've learned nothing at all from dealing with these people."

"Shut up," Mulder told him. "No, better yet, since you're such buddies with our UNSUB, why don't you tell me why he killed Reiver?"

"You just found out. Because of this project. Because of hybridization. You know it can't be allowed to happen."

"You agree with him?"

"Of course! Don't you?"

"Yes," Mulder said. "But I never thought we'd be on the same side."

Krycek grimaced. "You're wrong. We've been on the same side many, many times."

Scully hung up then. "Markham says he can get a team over there in one hour."

Mulder tore his gaze away from Krycek and looked at his watch. "Okay, then. Let's go."

*

855 South Bend Road  
New York  
1:26 pm

The warehouse sat like a tin coffin on the other side of the road from a blinds factory. Krycek sat in the back seat of the car, handcuffed to the door handle. He was in the middle of the seat, looking out between Mulder and Scully where they sat in the front. He had never been here, he knew, but the feeling of danger was palpable. He had a feeling of eyes watching them, of a hand in the dark hovering inches from his neck.

"Where the hell is Markham?" Mulder fumed. "He should have been here with that team almost two hours ago."

"I still can't reach him on his phone," Scully said. "And neither the New York nor the Philadelphia Bureau saw him this morning."

Krycek listened to their conversation with half an ear, scanning the other cars in the parking lot. They all seemed to be unoccupied. There was only occasional traffic passing on South Bend Road.

"The warehouse looks deserted anyway, Mulder," Scully was saying. "It's entirely possible that we guessed wrong."

"This is the place." Mulder tapped his steering wheel. "I can feel it."

"So can I," Krycek said. He met Mulder's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"That's it," the other man said. "I'm going in there." He unbuckled and got out of the car.

Scully scrambled out after him. "Mulder, you can't."

Both their doors slammed at the same time. Krycek watched them through the windows, their breath visible in the cold air. Their voices grew faint as Mulder started walking toward the warehouse. "...something wrong here, Scully..."

And then her voice, higher: "...shouldn't leave...in the car..."

Krycek saw them both look back at him. He declined to communicate any expression, instead stared at them blankly.

A few more arguments back and forth and then they were both crossing the street quickly, guns held close to their sides. Krycek craned his head over the top of the driver's seat, watching them. They paused for a moment upon reaching the warehouse, Scully's hair the only discernible color against the light gray building, then edged around a corner of it and disappeared from view.

He slumped back in his seat, jerking hard at the handcuffs. The door handle showed no sign of giving, and his wrist screamed at the metal grinding into his flesh.

Shit.

"Stay calm," he muttered. "You can get out of here."

Jun's words from the night before rose unbidden: "When you find yourself in a trap, the only thing you know how to do is wait for someone else to get you out of it."

Krycek shook his head, trying to silence the memory, but there were more waiting behind it, a crowd of Jun-voices and faces. He remembered Jun beside him, gliding down the long dark corridors of the New York headquarters. Slipping through the cold night outside a laboratory in Vermont. His thin angular body, hunched over his knives as he sharpened and cleaned them.

He remembered Jun saying, "Slavery still exists."

Another car was pulling into the parking lot. Krycek ducked down, listening as it pulled into a space about a hundred yards away. A door opened and slammed, and he waited a few beats before peeking out of the car window.

He could see only the man's profile, but he recognized him -- Adams. What the fuck was he doing here? As far as Krycek knew, he was assigned somewhere in D.C.

Krycek debated for a moment, but when he saw Adams begin to walk toward the warehouse he started banging on the window with his prosthesis. "Adams! Adams!"

The other man whirled around, looking about wildly before catching sight of Krycek. Then he strode over.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said. "But then somehow I thought you'd end up with Mulder and Scully. I assume they're in the warehouse."

Krycek's thoughts raced. "Get me the fuck out of here, Adams."

"Give me one reason to help you."

"Look, I don't know what you want with Mulder and Scully, but if you're here alone, you're going to want me for backup."

"Point taken. But I wasn't planning on having any trouble by myself."

"Adams --"

"Settle down, Krycek. Let me get some shit out of my car first."

Five minutes later he was standing outside on the parking lot cement and Adams was handing him a gun. Krycek raised his eyebrows as Adams opened his coat to take another gun out of a shoulder holster. There was a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt.

Adams noticed his look. "You weren't the only one who did some time in law enforcement."

"Yeah, but I never knew any of the others."

Adams grinned. "Special Agent Tim Markham, at your service."

*

858 South Bend Road  
New York  
1:49 pm

The warehouse was big, dark, and empty. Very empty.

There were two small corner cubicles at one end of the building, each with an open doorway and a window, which might have served as offices or guard stations at some point. They were currently dark and silent. The warehouse was large enough inside to hold two stories, the corrugated metal ceiling sloping high above bare cement floor. The second story was a loft with a waist-high wall that ran around the entire inside perimeter. There were windows set at regular intervals around the upper floor, but none below.

Mulder spotted a metal staircase and clambered up to the loft before Scully would have a chance to think through the dangers. She called his name once, then followed with a sigh.

He folded his arm so that his gun was at shoulder level, pointing upward. At the top of the staircase, he motioned her silently to walk along the loft in one direction, then he took the other.

His heart was trying to leap out of his throat as he threaded through old boxes and crates, pieces of refuse that had somehow found their way up to the second story to die. Mulder watched Scully across the expanse of the warehouse as much as he watched the shadows cloaking his path. He could picture all too well who might be hiding up there waiting for them.

But in fact if there _had_ been anyone there, he or she had already abandoned the warehouse completely.

Scully and Mulder met up opposite the staircase. She shook her head. "It looks like there wasn't a connection between this place and those papers after all, Mulder."

Now it seemed like he couldn't feel anything inside his chest except a hollow, echoing cavern. "No," he said, though his words sounded desperate even to his own ears. "This was it, Scully. They just got the jump on us somehow."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow and started making her way back to the staircase. Mulder trailed behind, listening to the building. Except for the noise they made with their steps, it had an eerie, still quality, the non-sound of something poised in dark corners and ready to pounce. He shivered at the sensation. He knew he was right, however desperate he sounded. This place had a resonance to it, like pain and fear had been smeared onto the walls and left to dry.

As they got to the bottom of the staircase Scully holstered her weapon, turning to say something. But before she could get past "Mulder --" the side door of the warehouse opened, letting in the afternoon sunlight. And there was Markham, blinking up at them.

That was when everything went to hell.

"Where have you been? Where is our SWAT team?" Scully demanded, just as Krycek strolled in behind Markham.

Markham didn't answer her, but instead drew his gun with a quick, fluid motion and aimed it at Scully.

Mulder did have something in his chest after all. He knew it because his heart had stopped.

Scully held very still. "Markham, what are you doing?"

"His name isn't Markham." Krycek smirked.

"No questions, Agent Scully," Markham said. "Just you and Mulder give us your weapons. Come on down from those stairs, take the guns out slowly, put 'em down on the floor and kick 'em over here."

"What _is_ this?" she hissed, and then bit off further speech when Krycek pulled a gun of his own.

"Move," he said, and that was all he needed to say.

*

5:03 pm

Krycek realized he'd been dozing off when he opened his eyes. He was still standing, leaning against the wall of the cubicle, but through the doorway opposite him the warehouse was darker, the shadows stretching long and finger-like from the small windows at the loft level.

Adams was crouched on the floor with his back to him, double-checking the clips in Mulder and Scully's guns. His movements were solid and methodical. Krycek watched him for a moment, then looked over to the cubicle across from theirs, where Mulder and Scully were visible through the window. Well, the top of Mulder's head, anyway. Scully was too short to be seen.

He started walking before he'd made up his mind to do so. He was fully awake -- it had been years since that took more than three seconds -- but as he crossed the distance between the cubicles he realized he was re-walking the dream he'd just been having, the one that had awakened him.

He knew they were sitting back to back on the cold cement floor, handcuffed together with the pair they had used on Krycek and the one from Adams' belt. Krycek had held them at gunpoint while Adams did the work.

But in his dream he had been strolling over there with the same conviction. He had slipped through the doorway and into the darkness of their cubicle. He had leaned down to look at Mulder and Scully, a sneer on his face and a "What happened to you?" on his lips. Only when he was just about to say it, he realized they weren't there.

Instead, he was looking at himself, bound with a coil of wire.

But of course, this was reality. And of course, they were still there, bound together, back to back. Mulder gave him a baleful glare as Krycek stepped toward them and checked their handcuffs. Scully's look was about ten times more flammable.

"Just what do you hope to accomplish, Krycek?" she asked. "You're not going to kill us, or you would have done it already."

Krycek straightened. "No one wants you dead. Not at the moment, anyway."

"But apparently someone does want to string us along," she said. "That's nothing new. How long have you and Markham been interfering with our investigation?"

"I didn't know he was involved," he told her before he could think better of it. Then he took another look at what he'd just said. He hadn't known.

Why hadn't he known?

Scully spoke again. "Was it you who took the body and the crime scene photos from the morgue?"

"You couldn't be allowed to identify the victim. That would've brought you too close to exposing the Group."

"But then who put us on this case? It couldn't have been one of you -- one of this Group you work for -- if our investigation meant risking their exposure."

"It wasn't," Mulder said, speaking for the first time. "We were assigned by someone who wanted to exploit that risk. Someone who didn't believe our UNSUB was the killer we should have been looking for." He looked up at Krycek. "You and Markham are going to kill the Messenger, aren't you?"

"Yes," Adams said from the doorway. "We are."

Krycek kept his face blank as Adams came to stand beside him.

"Is that why we're waiting here?" Mulder asked. "How do you know he'll come?"

"You predicted he'd come to New York," Adams said. "You were right, of course. There have already been...inquiries...made as to the whereabouts and activities of a certain person, who will remain nameless, on this so-called Messenger's behalf. We know who he's looking for, and by extension, we know where he's going."

"He's looking for the smoking man, isn't he?"

Adams shrugged. "There are a lot of men in New York who smoke, I'm sure."

"Why isn't _this_ smoking man _here_? This is where he was running his hybridization project, right?"

"It _was_ the place," Adams said smoothly. "That project has mobilized, however."

"The trains," Scully breathed. "You son of a bitch. How long have you been working for Them, anyway?"

"That's a little more personal history than I feel like sharing, Agent Scully. But in a way, you and Mulder work for Them just as much as I do."

Her eyes flashed. "We don't kill people in cold blood."

"Semantics." Adams spread his arms open, a gun in one hand. "Maybe it helps you sleep at night to phrase it that way." Adams dropped his arms and tucked his gun into the back of his pants. "Now, it's been delightful chatting, but I hope you understand that you'll have to be gagged before our...visitor gets here."

Adams was a solid, methodical worker, and it was done in less than two minutes -- Mulder with his own tie, and Scully with a piece of cloth Adams brought out from his pocket.

"Let's get ready," he said to Krycek, and left the cubicle.

*

5:14 pm

Mulder began to gently maneuver himself and Scully away from the wall, trying to get a better look through the window. She realized what he was doing quickly and began to help, both of them crab-walking with the heels of their feet, their backs and arms pressed together while taking simultaneous steps. His ass ached from the cold hardness of the floor and the handcuffs bit into his wrists. He wondered whether they were tight on him that meant they were looser on her. He'd meant to ask earlier. He'd also meant to ask if the contraction of her abdominal muscles was hurting her bullet wound, but the intention had slipped out of his thoughts.

He had strained, for a few moments, to hear whatever Krycek and Markham were saying to each other outside the cubicle, but the men had kept their voices down to murmuring decibels, and had only spoken briefly. After a few seconds of silence Mulder heard someone climbing the metal staircase, and that was when he started to move.

By the time they were in a position for the staircase to be in his line of sight, whoever was using it had disappeared, probably hiding somewhere behind the short wall. Mulder craned his neck and tried to see as much of the loft and the ground floor as possible, but he could discern no movement in the shadows.

One person in the loft, he thought. One person on the floor, probably in the cubicle. And since they both had guns, the Messenger -- if he did come -- would be ambushed.

The tie in his mouth was getting soaked, but he felt like he had a mouthful of dry cotton. He heaved a loud sigh and felt Scully stiffen against his back. Sorry, he thought at her, but doubted that would put her in a better temper. He could feel the heat of her fury, searing through the layers of cloth that separated them and warming them both in the chill air of the warehouse.

He was angry, as well. Not necessarily about the fate of the Messenger, coming like a lamb to slaughter, or even about Markham's betrayal. He was angry because they had been _used_. Again. As if they had learned nothing from all the countless other times.

He'd been angry almost his entire life, at least the part of his life that mattered, the part that began when he had been jerked so roughly out of innocence by Samantha's abduction. When he went through the regression hypnosis as an adult, he realized that he had always known, deep in his intuitive child's mind, that she was only being taken for someone else's use. Like a chess piece, to be moved about and sacrificed when necessary.

The resentment of it -- the _anger_ \-- was a constant claw in his throat. He didn't know what would happen when he lost the fight for air. Would he explode? Or would he simply deflate, shrinking down to nothing?

For most of his life, he'd thought it was the former. He had been scared of the possibility, of what he might do when he finally lost the thin thread of control. But more and more lately, he had been thinking it would actually turn out to be the latter. He traced through that chain of events he'd pictured the night before, the chain leading from Samantha to their present situation: handcuffed and gagged on a cold cement floor, waiting to witness a murder.

Somewhere, there had to be a breaking point, he thought. Somewhere.

*

8:09 pm

He had been dozing off again. Krycek ground his teeth together and gripped his gun more firmly, stretching his legs out in front of him, one after the other. The loft had captured most of the heat from the day's sun, and whatever heat had risen from the floor below, but his muscles still ached with cold.

He needed to be more alert than this if Jun was on his way. He need to be a _lot_ more alert than this.

He chanced peeking over the top of the wall, but the warehouse below was completely blanketed in darkness. There was some starlight from the windows in the loft -- he could make out the outlines of the cubicles, the perimeter of the loft wall, and the staircase, but he couldn't see any hint of Adams, Mulder or Scully.

Nor would he be able to see Jun, he realized. He wondered how much visibility Adams had from inside his cubicle.

But thinking of Adams -- of what Adams knew that he didn't -- was like scratching at a sunburn. He shifted, trying to move his thoughts elsewhere the same way he moved his gun, or his hand. The problem was, the dark and the quiet of the loft provided absolutely no distractions.

It was obvious to Krycek that the Circle didn't trust him -- it had been obvious from the first time he ever met Spender, and again the first time he was allowed into the New York headquarters with Jun as his escort. He didn't think he could respect an organization that _would_ trust him, an agent who had double-crossed them time and again. Groucho Marx had said it best, with different implications.

Now he was rambling. And dozing off again. Krycek shook his head and sat up straighter.

The Group was fundamentally flawed. This was also something he had known from the beginning. It was flawed in the very notion that its members were untrustworthy, that they had to be constantly monitored and tested and yes, punished. It meant that the Group had no stability at its center, no leadership and no real loyalty. Everyone was in it to survive, just like he was, and goddamn anyone who got in someone's way.

He didn't know yet if he'd made the right choice bringing the Russian vaccine to the Group. It had been necessary, of course, for the survival of the world. Unlike some of the Circle he wasn't under the illusion that the preservation of a mere remnant of humanity would be sufficient.

What had made the choice doubtful was how it had gotten twisted completely out of his control. He had meant to bargain with them, to deal. But instead they sent Marita, and he gambled with her and lost.

Lost big.

He was enslaved again, just as Jun had said he would be, years ago. Not only that, he was out of the loop. He had no ladder to climb, no direction but that which they pointed him toward.

Krycek wondered if Spender realized how close his death was every time they spoke, if he understood that Krycek would kill him at a moment's notice if they didn't live in a world with consequences. The Group never forgot. Never. Even with all the favor and power Spender seemed to hold currently, he would still always be the man they had tried to kill for his arrogance. Only now, because of the hybridization project, he was valuable to them. To the preservation of their remnants.

Krycek knew where Jun was coming from. To Jun the world was too open and unfettered for anyone to allow himself to be enslaved, whether to an alien race or to fellow humans. Jun had the desert in his blood, where the sky and the sand stretched to infinity, meeting each other unspotted by so-called intelligent life. That someone -- some Circle of wrinkled old men wishing out of mortal fear to be immortal -- could declare it had the power to keep him away from such places only guaranteed their own destruction.

He had never learned how exactly Jun became involved with the Group, but he knew they had failed at omnipotence, at omniscience. Jun was a snake in the grass, telling his stories for years, and yet he had escaped their punishment. Long enough, at least, to inflict his own brand of it.

But it remained to be seen, didn't it, whether Jun the Messenger had been successful at slaying this particular guardian. Myths took a long time to die.

*

8:57 pm

Mulder heard nothing, but he felt a change in the air coming from the cubicle's doorway. It moved now, an icy breeze striking the side of his face when everything had been still and stagnant for hours. It smelled of the outdoors, of the grass and the night surrounding the warehouse.

He thought Scully might be asleep, but she pressed her shoulders hard against his back and he knew she'd felt it too.

He scanned the dense blackness with his eyes, but he couldn't see anything, much less a door opened onto the night.

Still, the air was moving.

Mulder had dozens of casefiles about extrasensory perception, and dozens more that, though he couldn't classify them as textbook examples of ESP, had convinced him that humans possessed more than just five senses. He believed completely in instincts that had been passed down from humanoid ancestors through all the long years of evolution, survival instincts like being able to tell when someone or something was nearby despite not being able to see it.

This instinct was screaming at him now. And he knew, he _knew_ without question, who it was screaming about.

Mulder did the only thing he could think of. He braced himself against Scully's back, the handcuffs pinching painfully into his flesh, and crashed the flat part of his feet against the wall of the cubicle.

*

8:59 pm

Fifteen seconds.

One for Krycek to come awake once the knocking started down below. Three to slither toward the staircase. Five to get halfway down it. Six to flatten himself against the metal steps once the shooting started.

At fifteen seconds, he heard a strangled cry over the sound of the gunshots. Then the gun stopped, and there was only silence.

He got moving.

*

9:00 pm

"I'm wounded," the Messenger said. "And there's another one coming."

Mulder sensed the touch before it came, almost like seeing a ghostly apparition of a hand in the dark, but he hadn't realized it would be wet. It made sense, though. There was bloodsmell everywhere, thickening the air and making it impossible to breathe.

The fingers were long and thin, and they felt at his eyebrow and his nose and his gag. They dug lightly into his cheek and pulled the gag free, and Mulder swallowed, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The hand moved to his shoulder and pulled him and Scully back upright.

"Up...'tair..." he managed.

"Yes," the Messenger said. "I know."

There was a dead body in the doorway, though Mulder couldn't see it. He had heard it die, though, heard it cry out and then heard the cry trickle off into a gurgling sound that had made him want to empty his stomach where he lay.

Whoever it was, Markham or Krycek, he had come shooting as soon as the Messenger ducked into Mulder and Scully's cubicle. The sound of gunfire reverberated around that small space like trapped thunder, and Mulder could feel the bullets whizzing past and crashing into the walls as he and Scully pushed themselves into a corner.

Then with his ESP instinct he sensed the Messenger lunging out of some impossible place in the cubicle that was darker than the dark, and he heard the awful cry and the heavy drop of a body to the concrete floor.

Krycek or Markham? "Man," he rasped. "Man you killed...his arms?"

It was a beat before the Messenger responded. "Then it must be Krycek coming down those stairs now. Poetic."

Mulder barely had time to register that before Krycek started shooting at them from somewhere out in the dark warehouse.

*

9:01 pm

Krycek heard wood and plaster breaking, the gun kicking and crashing in his hand, Jun laughing over all of it. Not a joyful sound.

He was under the metal staircase, aiming through the steps. Light, fuck, where was the fucking light? He couldn't see shit and Jun had killed Adams and it was dark and Jun in the dark was living, laughing death.

"I hope you brought my knife," Jun said, closer than Krycek thought he would be, and Krycek fired in the direction of Jun's voice. He heard more wood and plaster breaking.

"I brought a lot more than that."

That laugh again, like wild horses barely reined in, spilled out and then cut off abruptly. "Don't you know we're fighting the same war? And you're still following their orders."

"What makes you think I don't _want_ to kill you?" He held very still beneath the stairs, picking out the lines of the cubicle again, seeing a heavier darkness where the doorway was. He willed his eyes to adjust that much more, tried to let the meager starlight from the loft illuminate his battlefield.

"What you want is irrelevant, unless it's on the side of man. Killing me most assuredly would not be."

"And serial killing is?"

"It's what you do," Jun retorted. "It's what they all did."

"I kill when I'm ordered to, or when it's a matter of survival."

"You're as blind as you have always been. This _is_ a matter of survival."

"You think the loss of a few men makes a difference? Even if you could kill the smoker don't you know how many would take his place? You can't possibly kill them all."

"I'm not acting alone," Jun said, but Krycek heard only his own words, echoing in his head.

He knew they were correct.

It was impossible to defeat the Group. They were not omniscient or omnipotent, but they were so close they might as well be. They loaded the dice. They made every gamble come out in their favor. They had more eyes than anyone could count.

There -- movement in the doorway. Krycek kept his gun trained on it, his finger caressing the trigger, every muscle in his body in communication with every other muscle. He wondered briefly if Mulder and Scully had survived the hail of bullets. He supposed they had -- they were quite similar to himself in that respect, more than they knew.

"Join us," Jun said. "You can't win a war sitting on a fence."

"I've chosen my path already."

Silence, until Jun broke it. "Then you must know I can't allow you to get in the way of mine."

A blur in the doorway again, only this time it was purposeful, lethal.

Less than a second, weighing the world in the fractured time his thoughts took to move. What if it never ended, this constant rolling of loaded dice?

But he had already pulled the trigger.

He heard Jun hit the floor at the same time Mulder's voice cried out, "No!"

*

9:06 pm

Krycek stumbled over Markham's body and cursed.

"We're over here," Mulder said. His voice was tired, the uphill climb out of his throat almost too much of an effort to make.

Krycek's hand grazed the top of his shoulder, then came down on it more solidly. "Is Scully still gagged?"

"Yes."

He sensed Krycek working on Scully behind him, and then she spoke.

"You killed him." Her voice was icier than the winter surrounding them.

"Should I have thrown him a birthday party instead?" Krycek snapped.

Scully didn't answer, but for her that wasn't acquiescence.

"Are you going to let us go?" Mulder asked.

"No," Krycek said. "But I'll call in the cavalry for you." He was quiet for a moment, and Mulder waited for him to say something else, to explain or justify or tell them they would never understand.

But instead Krycek turned on his heel, walked out of the cubicle, and left the warehouse.

*

10:42 pm

Under the lights, the Messenger looked like a boy, a skinny blond-haired boy with part of his cranium collapsed under the insistent pressure of a bullet. The four men who came to collect him and Markham were not FBI agents or local law enforcement. But they wore dark suits and ties, and they carried guns. And body bags.

Mulder saw on the Messenger's arm, before they zipped him closed, a row of ellipse-shaped scars with circular centers. Eyes, carved into skin.

The men cleaned up the blood, unlocked their handcuffs, held them at gunpoint while the bodies and cleaning supplies were loaded into the back of an unmarked white van. Then all four got in and drove off.

Mulder and Scully stood shivering in front of the warehouse.

Her face was pale and blue-tinged, red hair whipping around her cheeks with the cold wind. There were red marks at the corners of her mouth where the gag had bit into her flesh. She looked up and met his gaze without speaking, but her anger still burned the air between them.

He felt his own anger welling in his throat, hot and choking. He stared down into her eyes for a moment more, words racing through his head.

But before they could force their way out of him he turned on his heel and stalked toward the road. After a moment, she followed him.

*

46th Street  
New York, NY  
Thursday, 11:03 am

"You did well," Spender said. "The loss of Adams is regrettable, but you accomplished your assignment." Beside him, Diana Fowley drummed her fingers on the cover of an FBI casefile.

Krycek clenched his jaw, fixing his gaze on the smooth finish of the table.

"As you may have heard, the hybridization project is nearing completion. After half a century of work, we are at the brink of success."

Still Krycek stared at the table.

Spender tapped his cigarette into his ashtray. "Diana has been of much service to me lately, but her position in the FBI makes it too dangerous for her to take on many of the tasks I anticipate will arise in the coming weeks."

Krycek looked up then. Diana was stone-faced. "You want me to come back and work for you."

The older man half-smiled around his cigarette. "You do realize what an endorsement from me will mean in the near future."

"After everything that's gone down between us?"

Spender shrugged. "I find that the time for feuding has run out. And you know what they say about keeping your enemies close."

Krycek leaned forward in his chair. "First I want to know who Jun was working for."

The half-smile broadened. "A good question. One that leads me to your next assignment."

*

Ten minutes out of the city Krycek's cell phone rang, and for half a second he considered throwing it out of his car window. But he pushed the thought aside, shifted his prosthesis to the steering wheel, and thumbed the phone on.

"Talk," he barked.

"You're planning something," Diana Fowley said. Her tone was expressionless as always.

It pissed him off, and he was already angry enough to breathe fire. "What the fuck do you want?"

"I know how you operate. You're thinking of a way to get out from under his thumb." Now contempt tinged her voice. "But do you really think you'd have a chance, once we've achieved what we've been working for?"

"You don't know shit about me."

"I know enough." She paused. "I know if you had to do it over again, you might not have killed him." This time, she wasn't talking about Spender.

He focused on the freeway stretching ahead, the sun glaring off the windshields of the cars around him.

"You're not free and clear," she warned. "Don't for one second think you are."

The line went dead on her monotone, and this time he really did throw the phone out of the window.

*

Hoover Building  
Washington, D.C.  
Thursday, 12:50 pm

A man stepped out through one of the ground-level doors of the great white building named after J. Edgar Hoover, blending into the crowd moving on the sidewalk. The man himself had no real name, though he had kin -- of a sort -- who others at one time or another had named Jeremiah Smith.

He did not look like those Jeremiahs at the moment. He looked, rather, like one of the Assistant Directors of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Actually, he looked _exactly_ like one of the Assistant Directors, enough so that everyone else had assumed it was his true identity.

This was all according to plan.

What was also according to plan was the news he had learned that morning, about the conclusion of the recent investigation by Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully into a series of murders in the mid-Atlantic region.

True, he had hoped they might succeed in exposing the men who had employed the murder victims, thus bringing to light their efforts at developing the technology of alien-human hybridization. He had also hoped that the young man, Jun, would succeed in his efforts to eliminate the project's ringleader, a man the Jeremiahs considered especially dangerous.

But the man who was neither Jeremiah nor the Assistant Director was also realistic. Despite what he had hoped, he had also known what not to expect.

Thus, it was sufficient and according to plan that Mulder and Scully had been alerted to the dangers looming over the horizon. They might be currently assigned to a department other than their X-Files, but at least they could no longer deny that events were moving along without them.

It was also sufficient and according to plan that Jun had failed, and in the process, lost his life. He had been merely a precursor to what the Resistance had planned for the Circle, those men in league with the Colonists, and was a loose cannon besides. They had given him freedom in his personal crusade, but they had never meant it to be an indefinite freedom.

The man who was not Jeremiah Smith walked to a parking garage and got into a car. He drove through the city until he reached an apartment building, then took the lobby elevator up to the eighth floor.

He knocked on the door of one of the apartments on that floor, his rhythm particular and his timing precise. He counted to twenty, then used a key to let himself in.

There was a man standing at the window. He turned and nodded at the man who was not Jeremiah Smith. A second and third man came out of one of the rooms and greeted him verbally. These looked like -- looked _exactly_ like -- the others who had been called Jeremiah Smith.

The man at the window did not speak. He could, if he wanted to, though when he did the effect was quite eerie, because where his mouth had been was only a smooth expanse of skin. He had no eyes, either, and the orifices to his ears and nose were also closed off in the same way.

Yet he could speak well enough with his body, and the tilt of his head now was one of inquiry.

"We must contact the others soon," the man who was not Jeremiah Smith said in answer. "It is time for more drastic measures."

______________________________

  
Longwinded explanations and thanks:

It strikes me that there are some similarities between this story and the eighth season finale, although this was not intentional (and maybe I'm just being paranoid). What I did intend was something that could fit into the gap between Tithonus and Two Fathers and make more logical and dramatic sense than what we were given onscreen. I think the story ran away with me in the end, but hopefully I still remained faithful to that vision.

I've never searched through any kind of criminal database, but I figured it would be a good safety precaution for such things to record who logged on when. Some of Mulder's Argus musings were borrowed from Susan Yager. Krycek and Jun quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson's essay "Compensation."

Many people gave of their time and energy to help me with this story. I am humbly grateful to the entire A-team, whose members include:

Kest, for invaluable encouragement, discussion and deconstruction of this story when it had neither a plot nor an ending (or even Krycek slash); Diana Battis and LizardChyck, who patiently provided the answers to every geography question I ever came up with; Forte, Blackwood, and Musea, for being an early audience; Kelly Keil, for right-on lessons in grammar and common sense; and Vehemently, for smart and mytharc-savvy bookend commentary. Both provided some mighty straight-shooting beta.

Much appreciation goes to Melymbrosia for her enthusiasm and for making me step back and re-look at 2F/1S; and to Maren, the anesthesia when everything else resembles pulling teeth.

  
July 19, 2000  
May 30, 2001


End file.
